


The Vengeance Game (Unfinished)

by Trubbishly



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Claude/Lorenz later, F/F, Hubert commits murder, Just a fun LGBT roadtrip with no dark curses or nuclear warfare whatsoever, Multi, Slithers more like Bitch Ass Snakes, This is just me being salty about not getting to beat up the Slithers in BE, post BE, surprising absolutely no one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2020-11-02 07:43:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20671946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trubbishly/pseuds/Trubbishly
Summary: Hubert had his reasons. Edelgard knew he did. But murdering Thales on whim and running across the country with little to no explanation? That's not the best idea when the enemy has powerful magical weapons at their disposal. Luckily, she has a brilliant huntress adept at tracking on her side. Unfortunately, an opera singer and her dramatic horse-loving best friend have the gall to tag along.





	1. Murder at Mittelfrank

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be a wild ride. Buckle up, kids. I've been desperate to see Edel and Hubert (and Sothis tbh) take revenge ever since I learned of their tragic backstory, but instys said I have no rights. Oh well, it's my turn now.
> 
> When will the Bitch Ass Snakes learn to keep a lid on all their evil? Ah. Probably never...

Dorothea laced another fabric cornflower into the tight twine of Ferdinand’s braided hair. 

“Petra taught you how to braid like this, did she not?” the man said, turning his chin to observe his friend’s handwork in the mirror.

“Sit still!” she teased with a tap to his shoulder, “I haven’t finished yet. And yes, she did. It took some time. Brigid braids are quite intricate.”

“I can tell. We have been here long enough to make my tailbone ache,” Ferdinand grimaced.

“You’d think a frequent horseback rider like yourself wouldn’t be so bothered by a little sitting, Ferdie,” Dorothea mocked. She tucked a final blue flower into the base of one thin braid and moved on to the next.

“But that is when I am wearing my nice leather riding breeches!” he arched his back in a stretch and then gestured to his outfit, “Not whatever this airy dancing wear is! My legs are so...so  _ bare _ .” He slapped the exposed muscle of his thigh for effect. 

Her laugh was more of a snort than anything. The sorceress keeled forward and placed her forehead against the draped white fabric on Ferdinand’s shoulders, letting her good humor pour out unfettered, fingers still tangled in his ginger locks. “Tell that to poor Linhardt. You should have seen him run like a madman on the battlefield in one of those.”

Ferdinand joined Dorothea with his own jovial, practiced wave of laughter. After they managed to contain themselves, Dorothea’s work fell into a silent, peaceful rhythm. Silences were never awkward at this stage of friendship. If a younger Ferdinand had known how close they would become, he wouldn’t have believed it. That, of course, was back when his hair was too short to contain all of his pompous ego. 

She broke the silence with a low, reluctant sound, “Did you know Petra asked me to go to Brigid with her after the war?”

Ferdinand blinked. He felt the pressure of Dorothea’s tying leave his hair, her kind, magic-worn hands lowering quietly into her lap. She met his big, honey colored gaze in the mirror.

“She did?” Ferdinand said with an undesirably higher pitch than usual.

“Yes,” Dorothea nodded. A bittersweet smile crossed her face, “I plan on following through.”

Ferdinand’s mouth fell slightly agape, his gaze staring through his own reflection. It wasn’t like he didn’t know this was coming. They were a rebellion, a strikeforce, after all. Once the war was over, they had no reason to stick together. Each of them would go their separate ways and live out their lives peacefully. It was what they deserved. Thinking they would all stick together as a merry band was a foolish, childish thing. It was naive, like two childhood companions promising never to part for all of eternity. And still, that is what Ferdinand’s heart had believed. What kind of best friend would he be without that desire?

“Leaving Fodlan,” Ferdinand started softly, “It makes sense for you, dear Dorothea. I know how much you despised the war. I can imagine this place only brings you painful memories.”

“There are plenty of good memories, too,” she explained, head down.

“I...I am glad for you,” he felt himself choking up. Ferdinand had figured Dorothea and Petra cared deeply for each other. He was glad, truly. “I…”

Dorothea lifted her hands and squeezed Ferdinand’s shoulders comfortingly, “You’re allowed to be sad, Ferdie.”

“Am I not allowed to be happy and sad at the same time?” his voice returned to its boisterous self.

His friend rose with a short laugh. Her white boa falling down around her shoulders, she patted out the wrinkles in her red dress. “Can’t you hear the crowd gathering?” she noted with a smile, the hint of tears in the corners of her eyes, “Let’s get ready to give them a grand show.”

The two of them peeked through the heavy red curtain to take in the view. Leaning against the stage were Byleth, Lysethia, and the Emperor herself. She heard them shuffling through the din of the filtering crowd, and she tipped her head back to greet them. It was odd to see Edelgard without her beastly golden crown. Regardless, the simple tiara that decorated her forehead was still stunning in the theater lights, twinkling like a constellation.

“Are we almost ready?” Edelgard asked, eagerness subdued by her ever-formal tone.

“Everyone’s ready, I think,” Dorothea nodded, her own tiara sending off sparks of light. She put her head back behind the curtain and shouted, “ _ Manuela _ !”

Ferdinand flinched through a smile and Edelgard let out a small chuckle. “And what of the audience, my Lady?” Ferdinand noted. He craned his neck to find familiar faces in the crowd. “Are we all accounted for?”

The Strike Force sat together in the front rows. Linhardt was doing a good job napping through the chatter, and Caspar was already on the edge of his seat despite nothing happening on stage. Bernie bounced in her seat. Alois chuckled at her impatience. Petra was trying to get a glimpse of Dorothea, and Shamir looked mildly irate while Hanneman talked her ear off. They were all there, save the Emperor’s right-hand man.

“Where is Hubert?” Ferdinand wondered sourly. He gripped the velvety curtain with his bare hands as he scanned the shadows at the back of the theater, hoping for a glimpse of the reclusive minister.

Edelgard sighed, resting her chin on her palms as she braced against the stage. “I’m not sure. I know he’s not fond of operas but he  _ promised _ he’d be here. And you know how he is about breaking promises to me.”

The man sighed and shook his head in disappointment, “Can we wait for him a moment longer? To start a celebration of our accomplishments without everyone would be a crime.”

“I don’t see why not,” Byleth finally spoke. Her grin was small and light. Momentous for a stoic such as the professor. 

“Agreed,” Edelgard conceded. An impish glint filled her purple eyes as she looked up at the prime minister. “Wouldn’t want Hubert to miss your performance, now would we?”

Perhaps his face became as red as the curtains. He couldn’t be sure, but with a huff, he cast the velvet aside and stepped out, “If you are going to look at me like that, I will gladly go find him myself and drag him here.”

Golden beads and loops chimed with him as he bounced down the steps. Out in the open, his bare legs felt awfully cold. Curse Manuela for her choice in outfits. He shuffled nervously down the aisle, suddenly aware of his revealing costume.

“Nice clothes, Ferdie!” Lysethia shouted to him as he hurried from the auditorium.

\---

Hubert had meant to arrive at the auditorium earlier. Instead, he found himself watching the crowds filter in, all the pomp and circumstance feeling near stifling. He loosened his cravat with one finger. It was true, he was never fond of plays or operas or anything of the sort, but for his friends he would endure it. The minister supposed that was why he stood out in the hall. Dark magic could do wonders against ill-biding intruders.

The emperor would laugh at him. She would tell him he needed to loosen up. The war was over now. It was time to take a deep breath. Besides, what was the point of hiring guards if they didn’t do their jobs? Hubert’s lips quirked up at the corners at the thought of her chiding voice. If she could laugh, carefree, just for a moment, all his worrying in the shadows would be worth their burden in gold.

Old chandeliers glittered above the thinning river of people. Hubert found himself adjusting the wrists of his gloves, folding and unfolding his collar in preparation to merge with the well-dressed audience. He wondered if Ferdinand would be able to hold his own against the legendary likes of Manuela and Dorothea on the stage. A light chuckle escaped his lips.

And then, an unmistakable glint of purple jewelry against black hair flashed in his vision. A dark stare bore into Hubert’s pale forehead. His spine went cold and his ribs felt heavy as he locked eyes with the last man he expected to be there. The worst man who knew how to show up at the worst times.

“ _ Lord Arundel _ ,” Hubert spat with unmistakable venom. His shoulders rose like the hackles of a maddened black cat. His gloved hands curled into claws, magic broiling beneath the skin of his palm. 

The eerie man smiled back. His strange eyes were shadowed with malice as he observed the ferocious minister sneeringly. Calm, violent strength bore into every curve of his stature, his shoulders squared and hands held cooly behind his back.

“Stand down,  _ Hubert _ ,” he cooed.

Hubert jeered at him, only letting his shoulders drop slightly. “You shouldn’t be here,” he forced through ground teeth, “We explicitly told you only to show up for business of utmost importance.”

“Oh? And can I not afford as good a time as yourself?” the false Lord taunted, finally turning his body fully towards Hubert. “What harm is a little opera?”

“Exactly,” hissed the vassal, “you only bring harm wherever go.”

“And you don’t?”

Hubert felt the magic die in his fingertips. For the briefest of moments, his body loosened, the anger on his face faltering. The corpse of Lord Arundel let out a mocking laugh. It was darker and more vile than any snake song Hubert could dare choke up. He was back on his guard again, hands burning purple, itching to plunge Death Spikes through that excuse for a human being.

“You seem very insistent on not letting me in,” Arundel decided, “Please, learn to be a little more respectful to a guest. This is a celebration of our win, is it not? As the foremost contributor to the emperor’s campaign, I should think my presence would be an  _ honor _ .”

“Our foremost contributor?” Hubert let out a twisted laugh.

Suddenly, Arundel’s hands were around Hubert’s throat. The strange, patterned velvet of his lavender gloves made the minister’s skin scrawl as fingers tested the tensed muscles of his neck. Their faces were painfully, frightfully close. Hubert could smell the death in Arundel’s breath. The darkness in his eyes was swirling like a storm, admitting to the inhuman thing lurking within. Fear did not overwhelm Hubert’s face. He stared down viciously as the Lord’s lips curled.

“May I make another suggestion? At least try putting up a better act. It wouldn’t kill you to be more amicable towards me and those at my disposal, not after all we’ve done for you and your fragile white lily.”

Hubert had to try his hardest not to spit in his monstrous eyes.

“Besides,” Arundel brushed Hubert’s throat tauntingly with his thumb, “If I start getting the idea the Empire intends on turning against me... Oh no, that won’t do. I’m afraid I’ll have to call off our friendly little alliance rather violently.”

Hubert felt his breath stick, and finally, with sickening slowness, Arundel released him. A rattling inhale was Hubert’s only response. It seemed the parasite within Arundel’s skin got a sick satisfaction from his silence.

“It would be oh-so-easy to slip beneath your surveillance, Minister. You have always been below us. A humble, crestless shadow. Don’t even think of trying anything funny,” he scoffed, “Without you even knowing, we could steal away into the bodies of your friends. We are all around you, all the time. It would be a shame if a friendly little corpse were to wander into the emperor’s quarters at night.”

Hubert’s eyes widened.

“A quick swipe and the lovely lady would join the precious children we took so easily before her.”

The creature in Arundel’s eyes knew what he said was too much before the last word left his poisonous mouth. Hubert moved faster than an arrow, blood rushing madly in his ears. He tore his decorative dagger from its hiding spot and lunged with the force of a starving demon. Even the Agarthan’s dark magic could not spare him before Hubert’s dagger plunged into his stomach.

Gagging, the Lord thrust his hand upward, glowing purple. The shadow was too nimble. Hubert arched away, freeing his blooded weapon. Just as quickly, he went back in. The blade slipped perfectly between the wretched man’s ribs, and he felt the body beneath his dagger give.

He sunk to his knees, spitting up blood. Looking up at his killer, his eyes went fully black. His skin paled swifter than a violent winter storm, and his body fell graceless into a puddle of his own blood. The patterned, regal carpet of the Mittelfrank opera house swallowed up the iron without a second thought. The entrance hall was empty, silent, and Hubert could only hear the sound of his own wildly pounding heart.

Hubert found he was shaking as he watched the stain beneath him grow and grow. The dawning realization of what he’d done, the chain reaction he no doubt he set off, sank like a ton of bricks. His silvery dagger, now coated and red, clattered with a soft thud. Bringing his hands to his mouth, he immediately retracted them when the wet, tangy fabric touched his chapped lips.

“H-Hubert?”

That voice. His panicked green eyes drew upward slowly. For a moment, Hubert feared he was in the presence of a god. Before him stood Ferdinand, flaming hair bounded and braided with blue flowers. White and red cloth draped fluidly around him. Delicate brass coins and rings glistened decoratively at his waste, and his strong, bare legs were striped by the golden straps of sandals. It was tempting to fall to his knees and beg for mercy.

But there was an undeniably human emotion on Ferdinand’s face. That of fear. Terror. Disgust.  _ At him _ . Hubert looked down at his trembling hands. His white gloves, his dress gloves, were soaked and red. They were meant for regular use, not for war and murder. For meetings and tea parties. For shoulder touches and lacing in Ferdinand’s fingers. For pulling back those sweet orange curls and-

“Hubert, by the goddess what have you  _ done _ ? Is that Lord Arundel?”

“Yes,” Hubert croaked, unable to look into Ferdinand’s eyes. “Or what became of him.”

“Goddess! Goddess,” Ferdinand proclaimed, dragging his hand into his painstakingly prepared hair. “Can you not do this sort of thing for five minutes? And to one of our own. Dammit, Hubert!”

Hubert managed a shaky laugh, “One of our own? Look.”

Ferdinand obliged and looked down at the miserable corpse. The stains on the lovely carpet were maddening to him, but what he saw then made him gasp. Graying and changing before his very eyes, Arundel’s dark hair grew white. 

“Who?” Ferdinand asked breathlessly. His was feeling much more than cold now. “Who is that?” 

“Thales,” Hubert explained darkly. “Do you remember Those Who Slither in the Dark? That is their ringleader.”

“Their leader,” Ferdinand repeated. A sinking feeling was beginning in his stomach.

There was an itch on Hubert’s left wrist. It was all the blood on his gloves, no doubt, but when he pulled back his glove, his veins ran cold. The untrained eye would only see a simple ink scribble, a testing of a worn pen. However, to Hubert, the searing mark’s meaning rang true:

_ Vengeance. _

And with that branded sign, Hubert tore for the front doors. He did not dare heed Ferdinand’s panicked cries, callings of his name consumed by the cold night air as he made his escape. Not even the blessed wind saint, Macuil, could catch him now.


	2. Letter by Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdie is smad ))': and my Edelsithea agenda shines through...

Winter was soon arriving in Adrestia. Hubert could feel the sharp, metallic tinge of distant snow in each of his paced breathes. The night had already fallen in a dark blanket, the outskirts without lamplight thick with shadow, and Hubert scurried along the great gray cobbles of Enbarr in a mad dash for the castle. His sticky gloves were growing painfully cold and clammy against his shaking hands. Without a break in step, he tore them off and cast the blemished gloves aside. They belonged to the greedy city rats now.

He arrived at the castle with little interference besides the beating of his heart and the sting of the mark on his wrist. Wiping the cold blood on his dark pants, he stepped out into the light where the guards were taking their shifts. Questions filled their eyes, but they said nothing as the shadowy minister passed by.

The man tripped over his boots as he scrambled up the grandiose staircase. Generations of royalty critically watched him from their frames as he fiddled with his door key. Light wasn’t necessary. He knew his own room by heart, and with a sliver of moonlight to guide him, he hastened to gather materials. Poisons. Vials. All the things that could protect him from the inevitable. He slipped on a pair of black gloves, hiding the damnable mark beneath the cloth. Lastly, he took a shred of paper and wrote a hasty, blotchy note. The paper was slipped beneath the Emperor’s door.

Hubert stole a dark knight’s horse from the stables and sped away without looking back. He had no time to be sentimental, though he knew it could very well be the last he saw of the old royal estate.

\---

Bernadetta was the first to hear Ferdinand’s cries. All was silent in the theater. The lights were low now, all eyes on the stage, waiting. Edelgard drummed her fingers worriedly on the arm of her chair. Byleth leaned against the balcony beside her. Then, in all her skittish sensitivity, Bernadetta shot from her chair with a yelp that turned everyone’s attention her way.

“F-Ferdinand! Ferdinand!” she cried up towards Edelgard. She wagged a pointed arm towards the exit.

The Emperor rose stiffly from her seat and strained her ears. Through the wave of eerily silent static that followed, she picked up the pitched cry of distress that was undoubtedly the Prime Minister. Before she could whirl breathlessly on her heels to meet him, Ferdinand burst through the doors below.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” he echoed, out of breath. The man was a disgruntled vision. His flaming hair frayed at the top of his forehead, and fabric flowers decorated the path behind him. “Lord Arundel. Out there,” he gestured, overwhelmed by the eyes on him, “We have...a situation.”

“Excuse me, everyone,” the Emperor in red boomed to the puzzled crowd. “Please stay seated, I will be back shortly. I apologize for the delay.” 

_ Lord Arundel _ . It was hard to steady her breath and her words, but it had to be done. She hurried from the balcony with Byleth and Lysithea in tow. Ferdinand was waiting for them anxiously at the bottom of the stairs. He looked even more a mess up close, brow sweaty and eyes teary at the corners.

“ _ Ferdinand _ ,” Edelgard breathed. She placed her gloved hand on his shoulder to steady him, “what happened?” The deep violet of her eyes bore into the Prime Minister’s troubled gaze with an intensity challenged only by a flame.

“Lord Arundel,” Ferdinand started again. He could taste the acidic bile rising in his throat. Anger, or fear, or sadness plunged his thoughts into a fog. Soon Byleth was at his side, an arm linked into his. The minister swallowed, “Hubert...he...Lord Arundel is dead, Your Majesty. Hubert killed him.”

The Emperor’s hand went to her mouth in shock then, eyes wider than ever. Lysithea made like a streak in the direction of Ferdinand’s tilted head without a single word to accompany her. As usual, Byleth barely had a thing to say. She merely trudged after the blur of white and lavender lace, dragging Ferdinand along. 

“I feel...faint,” hiccupped Ferdinand. 

Edelgard kept her hand on Ferdinand’s shoulder, comforting herself as much as she comforted him. Her legs felt like lead under the red tresses of her dress. Lord Arundel. No, Thales. Dead. It was a curse as much as it was a blessing.

Low-and-behold, there the body was. Blood stuck to the carpet and the feathery locks of his ghostly white hair. Lysithea observed the scene critically, arms folded, pacing back and forth and soaking it in.

“So, he really was Thales, huh?” she remarked, sternness never leaving her face.

“You knew?” gasped Ferdinand from between the women’s sturdy arms. “Who else knew? Did you ALL know?”

“I’m sorry, Ferdinand,” Edelgard consoled with a pat before releasing his wobbly frame. “Lysithea, Hubert, Byleth and I all knew.”

The Prime Minister clamped his mouth shut wearily, wondering what that all meant for him. Edelgard placed her chin in a thoughtful hand and scrunched her face at the corpse. There were two stab wounds, no doubt from one of Hubert’s many concealed daggers. It was baffling to her. They had kept up the act all this time. So why did Hubert finally choose to snap now?

Byleth had a tendency to read her mind. “What happened here, I wonder? Hubert must’ve had his reasons.” 

“I have no doubt about that,” Edelgard nodded. “And I’m sure Thales had his reasons for coming here uninvited, too. Never would I even dream of inviting him.”

Lysithea abruptly pulled her white skirts over the knees of her lace tights, causing Ferdinand to briefly avert his eyes, and squatted down to observe the corpse with utmost intensity. The tip of her shiny black shoes met the spongy stain on the carpet. Ferdinand worried for her dress, but Lysithea appeared unbothered. Delicately, she began to unbutton the front of the corpse’s ruined jacket.

“Do be careful, Lysithea,” Edelgard worried.

The pale woman nodded but did not look up. She peeled back the bloodied lapel of Thales’ coat and began to rummage through his pockets. Byleth exchanged glances with Ferdinand and the Emperor. Soon, Lysithea’s hand retreated with its prize: a stained envelope.

“Bingo,” she remarked at her accomplishment, hoisting herself up from the mess below and holding the paper outward.

Purple eyes wide, Edelgard reached out to take the letter with hesitant fingers. The professor and the Prime Minister huddled closer to her as she peeled back the black seal. Lysithea kept looking down at the pathetic body with indignancy, thinly veiled satisfaction on her pink lips.

The stained message read in its strangely even lettering:

_ \--Lady Edelgard, _

_ Your cooperation until now has been of undeniable importance for our experiments. I hope you understand how valuable an asset we were to your endeavours, but I am afraid now that we have helped you accomplish your goal, I will have to withdraw from your services. Do not be troubled by this departure. For your cooperation we will not harm your little empire. However, I have a final request. You no longer have use for the Relics in this time of quiet. I require you return the Relics in your possession to us, regardless of their condition. I will send my subordinates to retrieve them by the month’s end. _

_ Lord Arundel-- _

“He wanted the Relics,” breathed Ferdinand over Edelgard’s shoulder as he finished the passage. 

“He wanted the Sword of the Creator,” Byleth decided distantly. She reflexively went to touch the weapon at her waist, but when it came in contact with nothing but her hip, she pulled back wistfully.

“ _ Why? _ ” Edelgard found herself nearly choking on her words, “What else could he possibly want with the Crest of Flames?”

Ferdinand was starting to feel awfully out of the loop again. Byleth put an arm around the Emperor’s shoulder with an understanding sigh, and Lysithea was quick to take up her hand as she took a turn reading the words.

“I...well,” the disheveled minister started, “It has been fun, but I should really be getting back to the stage now.”

“Oh right, the opera,” Edelgard hissed with a click of her tongue. This was quite the predicament. “It’s alright, Ferdinand. Please get it started without us. We can’t have the audience worried sick.”

We? So they were leaving him out again. Ferdinand grunted and complied with an unhappy nod, bounding towards the backstage with urgency.

Dorothea was pacing in the dark of the backstage when Ferdinand came hurtling in. She opened her arms to him, Manuela soon by her side. “Oh, Ferdie!” the sorceress exclaimed, “You look wretched? What happened?”

“I...I would rather save that for after the performance,” he hiccuped. Dorothea gripped his shoulders and looked up at him with worry.

“Are you sure you’re alright, dear?” Manuela pressed, roughly pulling at her irritating stockings as she approached. “You sound like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Perhaps I have,” the man frowned, “but Edelgard requests we start the performance as quickly as possible, as not to upset the audience.”

“Yes, yes, of course!” Manuela hums, “The show must go on! Come on now, Dorothea. Let’s give the signal.”

“Will you be alright enough to go out on stage?” his dear friend asked, reaching up to pat down the fraying hair of his crown.

He could hear Manuela addressing the audience. A preliminary wave of ovations rolled from the weary crowd. “I may have lost a fair amount of my flowers,” he smiled at her weakly, “but I do hope so. It would be a shame not to perform with my two favorite singers.”

Ferdinand was replaced by his backup after the first song. He struggled to project. The bright lights had filled him with nausea, and even with all his enthusiastic practice, he found himself stumbling over his lines. Truly, it was such a shame. He would sing his songs while he cleaned and bathed. It wasn’t hard. But he kept thinking about that pale, inhuman corpse. The things Edelgard left unsaid plagued him as much as the look of fear on Hubert’s face did. Manuela and Dorothea saw him trembling as the verses came to an end, and they forced him to sit down.

“Maybe next time, Ferdie,” Manuela consoled. Ferdinand merely nodded, though he knew there probably wouldn’t be a next time. Not with Dorothea and Manuela and him all together.

Dorothea hugged him quickly before rushing to find his back up. As the songs and acts went on, muffled by the velvet curtains and the thick fog in his brain, Ferdinand sulked in front of the mirror where Dorothea had done his braids. It was fine. He was a mess, anyways. He wanted to listen and enjoy the music of his friend, but his face found its way to his palms. His sandaled foot thumped against the backstage floor. Ferdinand thought about the unfamiliar back-up stage-kissing Dorothea in the finale instead of him, and how uncomfortable Petra might feel, and how Hubert wouldn’t be there to clap for them after it all, and he hugged himself against his knees.

\---

Lysithea warped the paled corpse and herself to the castle dungeon after much deliberation amongst the women. It would take a couple jumps to get there, and with no more Warps, she wouldn’t make it back to the opera house in time for anything of importance. Edelgard took off her red cloak and wrapped it around the snowy woman’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry you have to miss this because of my fool of a friend’s behavior,” Edelgard shook her head with a sigh, “I really am.”

“Nah. It’s alright. There will be plenty of other times to celebrate,” she shrugged in Edelgard’s small cloak, “Erm, but can you bring back some of the desserts from the reception?”

“I can’t guarantee they’ll be fresh by the time I get back,” Edelgard laughed half-heartedly, “but of course, Lysithea.”

That was enough to bring a small smile back to the woman’s face. And with that, both she and the monstrous corpse vanished in a flash of pinkish light.

Byleth and Edelgard walked quietly back to their balcony seat, awkwardly leaving the blood stain for some poor, confused maid to clean up. Orchestrals surged onward from the pit, unknowing of the events just outside. Edelgard’s deep sigh was swallowed up by the noise. The leading man was a fair haired stranger, and the Emperor waited in vain for the fiery Ferdinand to appear on the stage.

\---

The body was left in a cell to be protected by some terribly puzzled guards. Lysithea heaved herself tiredly out of the dank dungeons and into the candle lit halls of the castle. She paid no heed to the eyes catching sight of the Emperor’s red cloak around her shoulders. It protected her from the Enbarr cold when she warped to her first safe point in the woods, and if she was honest, it guarded her from the haunting presence of Thales’ corpse along the way. 

Up the stairs she trudged, observing the passing portraits with vague interest until she reached the Emperor’s door. She shrugged the cloak of and shuddered. Folding the fabric into a square, she leaned down to place it on the floor. In the dim light, she caught a glimpse of a paper corner beneath the door. Lysithea pulled the slip out from its poor hiding spot. It was hastily torn, hastily written:

\--Vengeance hates water. I’m catching the schemer. H.V. --

“Hubert,” she muttered at the writing. She stuffed the paper down the top of her dress and shuffled off hurriedly. The paper would be in Edelgard’s hands as soon as she stepped through the front doors. 

Lysithea kept the cloak with her and hunkered down at the bottom of the grand staircase, chin in her hands as she faced the entrance. If she had learned anything from her school days, she knew The Schemer wasn’t an easy one to catch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erg. Sorry if this was a bit of a wait. College combined with the absolute pinball madness that is my attention span caused me trouble (yeah. I have two whole other fics for FE3H going on right now). Things will be picking up pace after this chapter!


	3. Hunter and Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lysithea eats desserts, surprising no one. Ferdinand gets super nervous, also surprising no one. Edelgard doesn't understand what she's started.

It was done. The crowd was cheering for the actors and actresses, forgetting the strange wait and stranger interruption at the beginning, and forgetting about Ferdinand’s absence even more. Enthusiasm bloomed in waves, and for a moment, even Dorothea was forgetting. Lights glinted off her tiara and the beads of sweat clinging subtly to her forehead. The rush of adrenaline, the stickiness of sweat and the swell of the crowd... Oh, how she had missed this. It almost felt foreign, the applause and joy she received for her performance. Taking a bow, hand in hand with Manuela, she knew exactly why no one applauded for her on the battlefield.

“Ferdie! Oh, Ferdie!” Dorothea sang as she whirled backstage. She had torn the black heels from her sore feet. The shiny shoes hung from her fingers as she found herself doing a polka across the wood planks. “Did you hear that? They loved us!”

“Oh?” Ferdinand startled out of his hunched position. The sweat pasting the free strands of ginger hair to his face made it look like he’d performed the whole night long. “Yes, yes, Dorothea. Why would they not love you?”

The singer faltered. With a sigh, she tore her boa free and threw it on the Prime Minister. “You weren’t listening at all, were you?” she scoffed, “Really, Ferdie, I’m sorry. I know he promised, but Hubie is his own man after all…”

“Dorothea! This is not just about him!” he tossed the feathery accessory aside. “This is all...compounded. Ugh. Confound it!” Ferdinand buried his face into his hands again in frustration. 

Dorothea sank to her knees beside him, the thin material of her tights catching on a nail buried in the floorboards. “You are so dramatic, you know that, Ferdie?” she laughed softly as she worked the material free of its snag, “You truly were meant for the opera.”

A single, weak laugh escaped his throat. Despite the shakiness he felt he was smiling at her, eyes achingly tired, “Dear Dorothea, I am afraid our good old Hubie has gotten himself into a great deal of trouble.”

\---

The group of them fit quite snugly into the Emperor’s carriage. Dorothea’s head leaned against Petra’s shoulder as the Brigid woman looked thoughtfully out the window. Ferdinand was at Dorothea’s right, his arm linked into hers. He had had a moment of repose while everyone prepared to leave, and he took the chance to change back into a casual pair of slacks and a billowy shirt. He was glad for the white fur shawl he had lugged with him. Even against Dorothea, he felt an awful chill.

Byleth and Edelgard sat solemnly across from them. A plate of sweets guarded by a thin white napkin sat on Edelgard’s lap. He shuddered at the thought of Lysithea alone with that eerie body. When he was in its presence, he half expected it to jitter back to life like one of those awful Titanus dolls. What a wretched thought.

“Lord Arundel...ah, er,  _ Thales _ . What part of his experiments would warrant the use of Relics?” Ferdinand asked suddenly. 

He looked out his window at the passing lamplights. The truth he wanted wouldn’t be so easily coaxed from Edelgard, he knew, but by the goddess he would get it eventually. Even after all this time, Edelgard and Hubert still hadn’t let him in. Maybe his friendship with them wasn’t as strong as he had thought. His chest ached as he waited for an answer.

Edelgard shifted in her seat and gazed out the opposite window with Petra. “The Crests,” she eventually sighed, “He’s always been after the Crests. You’ve seen his monsters. Contact with the wrong Creststone was all they needed.” Her voice was so bitter it stung in Ferdinand’s ears.

“So, those things...No, those  _ monsters _ weren’t created only for our own offense, were they?” If Edelgard’s words were bitter, Dorothea’s were cyanide. “The war was just a stage for his experiments. Just a test, just a single step in something bigger.”

The Emperor would’ve liked to reach out a hand and squeeze the songstress’ knee comfortingly, but the stacked plate on her lap and the storm brewing in Dorothea’s eyes held her back. She could only look on morosely. Luckily, Petra turned away from the window and wrapped an arm around Dorothea’s shoulders. Petra huddled against her, hating the cold more than the rest of them could imagine.

“I am thinking that Hubert got a threat,” Petra remarked sullenly, “and he had a bad reaction. This sounds like the worst kind of man, and I am not blaming Hubert.”

Dorothea had rushed out into the reception hall when Ferdinand clammed up. From behind a glass of dark champagne, Petra saw Dorothea’s fretful hurrying and joined in her rush towards the Emperor. The spread of news was inevitable, and at the look on Dorothea’s face, Edelgard handed the women Thales’ letter with a sigh and explained the situation. Edelgard was glad the rest of the strike team was blissfully unaware for now. They would catch wind soon enough, and their worrying would surely drive her up the walls.

“Nor am I,” the Emperor sighed, resting her head against the black velvet of the carriage seat, “but I am frightfully disappointed. Hubert is surely sulking in the depths of his quarters by now. I swear, I will tear him from his secret hiding spot to get an explanation at the first chance.”

\---

Hubert fled into the darkness on a stranger’s horse. The cold air pinched the tips of his ears, and the flakes of first snowfall bit down on his pale skin as he galloped into the night. His hands were trembling in the black reigns, and he knew it was not from the cold. The mark burned like a needle against his wrist, unforgotten beneath his glove. His mind raced with the quickening hoofbeats.

Over and over, he went through his supplies in his head. The food he had stolen away from the kitchen was enough to last him the trip, supposedly. Rations would be meager, and his stomach would twist, but it was nothing his adrenaline couldn’t return twofold. Black magic buzzed quietly in the air. Vengeance was already sending out its wretched signals. He hurried the dark horse. The road would soon be too slick to continue at such breakneck speeds. Damn it all. If Hubert didn’t keep moving, the enemy would be on him in an instant. 

It would be worth it, in his mind, to die for a world without Thales. Taking the leader out would do a number on Those Who Slither. Yes, he would die a thousand deaths if he could set those disgusting cultists towards their demise. But, Hubert knew Thales wasn’t so merciful. His reward was far worse than a torturously slow death. He could see it now. Enbarr, wiped off the face of the continent, smoke rising with dust into a dying sky. A deadly silence. No trace of bodies, no screams, but still a knowledge of what existed mere moments before. Horrifying. A von Vestra did not fear many things, but if he didn’t fear the Agarthan arsenal, then he was damn well a fool. 

Hubert von Vestra was indeed very, very afraid. He was equal parts afraid and nauseously ashamed of himself. Acrid fluid tinged the back of his tongue as he traveled on. The minister clenched his cold jaw, telling himself he had no time to stop and wretch pathetically into the growing slush on the grass. Goddess, he was a fool. How dare he get ahead of himself like that? To pull a knife on the most dangerous man he knew? Thales was only spouting pretty words. And yet...and yet, oh hell, it felt like he was just a  _ child _ again. A child looking through a pane of glass at the awful experiments below. At the color draining from her highness’s hair, at the rats and things making waste of the undisturbed corpses…

Hubert was feeling painfully small, now. His horse was slowing at the thin sheet of snow that newly clung to the gravel road. His fingers felt stiff and numb in his gloves. The mark’s sensation was dulling. The man let out a sigh and gave his troubled steed a pat on the neck. Ferdinand would be ashamed at how he was working the poor beast so. Goddess, he felt so small and alone under the dark sky, knowing the frightening weapons that could swim it like the sea with a single command.

All was still and silent, a thin nail-clipping of a moon peeking through a dark lace cloud now and then. The moon. That was his hope. He watched his breath arc thin and silver through the air. The moon was an ocean away, and he would not sleep until he found him. Assistance was something Hubert barely sought out. A lone wolf he was in theory, but a venomous snake he was in practice, and even he would not deny how helpful another forked tongue could be. No man could dream of taking down the Agarthans on his own. But with a secret army and a few genius tacticians up his sleeve, perhaps Fodlan had a fighting chance.

He gave the horse a light kick, urging it on a steady pace through the growing snow. This was something he had to do. For a moment, up in his room, he wondered if a quick jump from his window was all he needed. A simple break of the neck and maybe, just perhaps, Vengeance would be satisfied. But if it was not? He couldn’t help but swallow. It was a selfish thought. He was not worthy of a death so swift, not when Edelgard, and Ferdinand, and the whole strike squad would burn for it. No, everyone would burn for it. So, he swallowed his own grievances. Hubert was going to travel the sea and meet the moon on his high throne, even if the whole world would rather have him dead.

\---

“Lady Edelgard!” 

The Emperor blinked out of a cold stupor. She wasn’t expecting Lysithea to charge her as soon as she set foot through the doors, but there the young woman was, draped in red and running towards her.

“Lysithea,” Edelgard shivered as Byleth closed the heavy doors, “is something the matter?”

“I got Thales back no problem, but,” her eyes became reluctant and she studied the new scuffs on her nice shoes, “Hubert left a message.”

“He...he did?” stuttered Ferdinand, pushing forward, “Wait, does that mean he is not here?”

Lysithea solemnly pulled a shred of paper from her dress and held it between her thumb and pointer finger delicately, like it would disintegrate at a touch any rougher. Edelgard fumbled the dish of pastries in her hands, handing them off to Petra as she snatched up the note hurriedly. Dorothea propped her chin on the Emperor’s shoulder and squinted at the scribbling.

The Emperor turned the piece about in the chandelier light, hoping for something else. She swallowed and crushed the white paper in her gloved palm.

“Vengeance,” Dorothea breathed, pulling her fingers through her brown hair. It was a quirk Ferdinand had grown familiar with. She was good at designating her nervousness to subtle things.

Ferdinand, however, was a monumental worry-wart, “Vengeance? But, has he not gotten enough of that with Thales? Really! Just abandon us to rush around with knives and poisons in the dark, Hubert. Have it your way. Hmph,” he grunted in frustration and shook his head, “Are you absolutely sure he is not here, Lysithea?”

“It was dead quiet upstairs,” Lysithea conceded, “and besides, in the note he’s gone to catch someone.”

“Yes. A schemer,” Edelgard tossed the tiny paper ball between her hands. 

“But you were saying this Thales was the leader,” Petra noted, passing the stacked plate to an eager Lysithea. “Can there be scheming above the leader? There is someone behind him?”

“I...I thought he was the leader, but,” the emperor unfolded the crumpled paper, “If Hubert knew he wasn’t the real leader, he would have told me. Wouldn’t he?”

“I should only hope so,” Ferdinand sighed, placing an unsteady hand on her strong shoulder. “But, you know Hubert. Secretive to the last, I am afraid.”

“I do know Hubert,” she mused sadly, staring at Ferdinand with her striking eyes, “but you know him well, too. Do you think he would leave us so easily, Ferdinand?”

“Well...,” Ferdinand faltered, looking away. He huddled into his furs. Despite the closed doors, a chill returned to his skin. “I can only hope not.”

“Luckily for you all,” Lysithea chimed in between bites of a molasses cookie, “I think I know where he’s running off to.”

“Lysithea! Why didn’t you speak up sooner?” the emperor chided, looking at the brown crumbs that stuck to the corner of the mage’s lip. 

She swallowed and shrugged, “You were having a moment. Besides, I might be wrong.” Teeth dug into the chewy treat and she continued with a delighted hum, “Read the note again. Vengeance hates water.”

“I am not understanding,” sighed Petra, looking at the wrinkled paper. The Brigid princess was bundled up warmer than the rest of them. A heavy wolf fur draped over her shoulders, the dull brown and gray stark against the red wine of her dress. Her tall boots were furred too, and even in her formal wear, Petra still seemed deadly.

“Water will slow down whatever is after him,” Lysithea finally explains, finishing her first dessert. She rubs her hands carelessly on her own dress before shrugging off the red cloak. Edelgard is grateful as she returns it to her, quickly huddling into it again. “Therefore, the more water the better.”

“The sea!” Petra decided excitedly.

“He is fleeing to the sea?” Ferdinand squeaked, “and does he plan to cross? To Brigid? To Dagda? This is madness.”

Lysithea shook her head slowly. Her pink eyes perused the plate hungrily before stopping at a piece of white cake. “No. That’s the wrong sea. He’s going to cross on the other side. To Almyra.”

“Almyra,” Dorothea echoed distantly. “Why, Hubie?”

“It’s a stretch, but,” the clever mage remarked as she licked a bit of sweet vanilla icing, “the phrase ‘the schemer’ rung a bell for a former Golden Deer like me.”

Edelgard breathed, eyes widening as she looked at ruined note, “You don’t mean…”

“Claude.”

Ferdinand, Dorothea, and the emperor exchanged glances as Lysithea chewed on her cake. Byleth had been silent all the while. No surprise crossed her face, but Ferdinand could see the pieces clicking behind her dark eyes. Wordlessly, the mercenary swept to the staircase and began to ascend.

“Where are you heading off to?” Dorothea asked, surprise still hanging in her voice.

“I am going to pack,” Byleth said simply before continuing her climb.

“Pack?” Edelgard exclaimed with exhaustion. She hiked up her skirts and rose to the third stair. “Pack! You plan on chasing after him?”

“Maybe,” the woman hummed, “but I think there may be others better suited to the task.”

The emperor swiveled her head back around at this and locked astonished eyes with Petra. In a heartbeat, they all understood. No one could quite track the hunted like the hunter. And most certainly, no one could handle the sea like Petra.

“I will be catching up to Hubert,” Petra said. Determination lit its strange flame in her berry colored eyes. 

Ferdinand saw Dorothea’s spirit sink heavily, her face dragged down with the weight of a blacksmith’s anvil. She dismayed, putting a hand on the princess’s cloaked shoulder, “But, Petra…”

“I am knowing what’s wrong,” Petra peered back at the songstress with a frown, “I am sorry, Dorothea. You aren’t wanting this.”

The prime minister felt the hurt shared between them in the pit of his stomach. He remembered Dorothea’s confession before the disaster of his performance. This wasn’t fair for the two of them. After all the trouble they had been through, after a chance for peace at last, Hubert had gone and spoiled things again. That seemed to be that blasted man’s job.

“Let me go with her, Edelgard!” 

Ferdinand blinked out of his upset thoughts to stare in bewilderment at his friend. He opened his chapped lips to say something, but nothing came out. He just stared at her with his mouth in an unhappy oh.

“Please, if she were to run into those awful dark sorcerers without someone to heal her…,” Dorothea clenched her hands together, worry leaking out onto her pristine face. Then, she masterfully twisted the look into a pout. “Oh please, Edie! I know I can do it! Let me help Petra. I beg of you.”

Ferdinand sighed in exhaustion. What an actor she was. But it always worked on Edelgard, and with a reluctant nod, the emperor conceded. 

She rubbed her eye with her fist and yawned, “Tomorrow, then, at the crack of dawn. You can go to the stables and I will see you off. Pack lightly and,” another yawn interrupted her, “Goodness, excuse me. And sleep well. You will need it. Poor Hubert is damnably slippery.”

The two women nodded solemnly. Dorothea had linked arms with Petra by then, and quietly, the both of them skirted past the emperor with a small bow and headed up the stairs in silence. Edelgard watched them drearily as Lysithea continued to munch on the stairsteps. The weighted air was filled only by the woman’s nervous chewing for a moment. Then, the emperor turned to meet Ferdinand.

“How are you feeling, dear Ferdinand?”

Oh, how tired she sounded. It made Ferdinand’s bones ache. Hubert had always been there to balance her weight, and even some of his, and the loneliness in that moment felt awfully heavy between them. 

“I am still processing,” Ferdinand groaned, rubbing his beating temple. “I will have to bid you goodnight for now, Your Majesty. My words have escaped me.”

Her gaze fluttered away from him. Strong, battle worn hands that grasped the air for something fell weak at her sides. She lingered there before him, wanting for comfort. Then, with a breath, she steeled herself and turned away. “Sleep well, Ferdinand.” 

The prime minister watched her ascend. His eyelids felt like steel traps ready to snap shut, and his stomach sunk deeper with every breath. This whole situation was getting ahead of him. Everyone leapt while he merely stepped, left behind in their dust. Ferdinand couldn’t help but think this was partially his fault. Why hadn’t he screamed louder? Why hadn’t he just reached out and grabbed that trembling wrist before it disappeared into the dark? Was he afraid? Ferdinand’s lips trembled. He had promised never to be afraid Hubert. He could just imagine the bitter satisfaction teasing a smile onto Hubert’s face now, knowing he had failed.

\---

“What is with that bitter look?” huffed Ferdinand over his nicest set of china. “I thought Almyran pine was tolerable, or have your tastes changed?”

The household minister chuckled and set his painted cup down, “No, no. It’s alright, I swear it. I was just musing to myself.”

“Alright is not enough. I will find a tea you love one day,” Ferdinand scolded himself. “And what amuses such a sound from you, hm?”

Hubert swirled his cooling tea with a small silver spoon thoughtfully. He watched the amber drink glistening in the midday sun, the golden rim of the fanciful cup complimenting it with equal shine. His light eyes were distant, almost sad, and a frown crossed Ferdinand’s face as he waited for an answer.

“Do you not find it silly or pointless, having tea with someone who doesn’t appreciate the intricacies of tea enough?” Hubert asked, never lifting his gaze.

“No? I do not?” Ferdinand said, taken aback by the softness in the serious man’s voice. “Do you hate brewing coffee for me when I have to work late nights, then?”

“No. Of course not, Ferdinand,” Hubert looked up worriedly, “I didn't mean it like that, I promise you.”

“I am well aware,” the ginger man explained with a haughty turn of his head. He crossed his arms and pouted playfully, “Coffee is already growing on me, so you had better hurry up and find a tea you like.”

  
  


“Hah,” Hubert hummed weakly, returning his oddly forlorn eyes to his drink. “You’re so sure you can change the mind of a bitter, bloodied man like me.”

“This is a war, Hubert!” Ferdinand managed to bite back. A hawk cried overhead and whatever else he had meant to spit died on his tongue. “We are all bloodied men.”

“It is not the same,” Hubert mumbled, unconvinced, “We are not the same, you and I. I am soaked to the core, a vicious echo of a true noble…”

“Hubert,” Ferdinand whispered, “I cannot stand hearing you speak this way of yourself. It wounds me.”

“But you need to hear it, Ferdinand. As do I. Like you said, this a war. I need to be reminded that,” he looked towards the blue horizon and breathed in the sweet, light air of spring, “I am something to be feared.”

“I am not afraid of you, Hubert,” hiccuped Ferdinand, nearly spilling his cup as he leaned over the table towards the dismayed man. “I have never been and I never will be.”

\---

“Hey, Ferdinand. You alright? You look like you need a piece of cake.”

Ferdinand shuddered in his white fur coat and came to rest on the steps next to Lysithea. The plate was more than half empty now. He always wondered how she could handle so much sugar, but if he was honest, he was rather jealous of her ability to eat herself senseless. A smudge of icing had managed to dapple her nose without her noticing. Ferdinand pulled out a pale handkerchief and dabbed it off. The woman went flush.

“I know, I know. I’m a mess,” she grumbled, shoving the ravaged plate towards him. He gratefully picked up a cinnamon cookie and nibbled it like a sad bird. 

“So, you were there, right? When Hubert made a run for it, I mean,” Lysithea broke the amicable silence nervously. “Did he seem freaked out or anything? At least, as freaked out as Hubert can be.”

“Hmm,” Ferdinand wondered through the taste of baked treat, “He was perfectly calm at first. But, he bolted suddenly. I do not think I have ever seen Hubert run that fast. I am not sure what overcame him.”

She swallowed a bite of whatever dessert she was devouring now. Throat tight, she gripped the plate. “Just as I thought. It must be the curse.”

“C-curse?” Ferdinand sputtered out his lovely cookie.

“Shhh!” hushed the woman secretively. “You heard me. Hubert wrote it right in the note. Vengeance.” 

“What about vengeance?” the minister mumbled, quieter this time. 

“Hubert and I...and Thales, we all work best with dark magic. But still, there are some spells that even the best dark mages cannot cast,” Lysithea began in a gravely low voice. “Not alone, anyway.”

Ferdinand didn’t want his cookie anymore. He could feel the color draining from his face. His vision was tunneling as she continued to force out quieted words.

“Vengeance is a rare, ancient spell. I’ve only read about it once in an old foreign text. It was Hubert’s book, actually. We translated parts of it together, but it needs connections to make. It’s a tracking spell of sorts.”

“Oh,” Ferdinand muttered. His stomach sunk further still. He had a sick feeling he knew where this was going.

“If the caster is killed within a certain time-frame after casting, the spell moves on to the killer and becomes a curse. It shows up as a mark and, well, if Hubert doesn’t get moving, who knows what will catch up to him. Mages, beasts, Titanus…”

Ferdinand clutched his knees as she trailed off. Goddess, what had Hubert gotten himself into? He didn’t know much about Those Who Slither and their dark machines, but he remembered the click of the Titanus’ joints, the thunderous thrum of their brilliant javelins as the air filled with smoke and static.

The dessert seemed suddenly repulsive to Lysithea too. Her knuckles went impossibly paler as she gripped the plate. Horror marred her face through the draping curtain of her eerie white hair.

“Lysithea? Lysithea? What is the matter?” Ferdinand worried, reaching out with a shaking hand.

“It’s...it’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow. We should really get some sleep. It’s been a long evening,” she waved his hand away. “I can’t wait to get out of this stiff dress.”

He very well knew neither of them would be getting any sleep that night. But, he had much to ponder, and so he rose silently and marched to his room with purpose and unease.

\---

It was selfish, he thought as he struggled to pack lightly, to worry over Petra and Dorothea like he did. Ferdinand very much felt like a child being denied an item of comfort. He thought he could prepare for Dorothea’s departure to Brigid. But now, the rug was pulled out from beneath him. In a way, Dorothea was truly leaving tomorrow. If he didn’t go, that childish part of Ferdinand believed he would never see her again. This quest could take months. He couldn’t be months without Dorothea, not when months were all Dorothea had left before her happily ever after.

He repacked for the fourth time. Tossing an unnecessary pair of pants on his already messy floor, Ferdinand knew his other reasons for going were equally as selfish. Hubert was out there trying to fix everything on his own again. Ferdinand wouldn’t let him get away with it this time. When he reached him, he would scold him until Hubert’s ears rang. He would drink in Hubert’s sweet, sharp retorts and revel in his complaints. Maybe chasing the man across the sea was a bit much as revenge for ruining his performance, but Ferdinand was all for dramatics. And Hubert knew this all too well.

Satisfied, he tightened his travel bag and tossed it with a thunk among his scattered collection of armor pieces. The simple candle on his nightstand melted dangerously close to its base. He blew it out and collapsed on his bed, letting the darkness keep him company. Silhouettes of snowflakes danced in his window. Ferdinand watched them and did not sleep a wink.

\---

Ferdinand rose earliest of all, antsy and buzzing for the adventure ahead. Taking his sack and sneaking into the kitchen, he took what he needed and ran out towards the stables. He felt at ease for the first time since yesterday evening. The stables always had that effect on him. The scent of hay and alfalfa and dirt stung his nose. Back at the academy, he would often fall asleep on the hay bails while reading. Hubert had walked in on him once, seeing him all tangled with straw, and Ferdinand turned pink from ear to chest after being shaken awake. He only looked back on that moment fondly, now.

And oh, how suddenly he wished to sink into the golden straw and nap like that. His exhaustion hit him like a wave, and he wondered if this was what Linhardt felt like. The dark of early dawn and the sound and warmth of the beasts around him lulled him into a fast sleep.

“Ferdie! Ferdie!”

He awoke to the feeling of his arm trying to yank itself from its socket.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he repeatedly hazily. “Dorothea? What?”

“I should be asking you that,” she huffed, at last coming into view in his cloudy vision. It was unusual to see her in such drab wear, all brown and sandy and tight. Her wavy hair in a ponytail was also a sight. Petra and Edelgard loomed beside her.

“Good morning Petra. Your Majesty,” he ducked his messy head. 

“For pity’s sake, Ferdinand,” Edelgard grumbled, looking at his sack on the pile of hay. “Please don’t tell me you planned to tag along.”

“Yes, actually! I did plan on it!” he said with earnest.

The emperor pinched the bridge of her nose, “You know this is supposed to be a secretive and speedy mission, don’t you, Ferdinand?”

“Of course I do!” Ferdinand agreed, forcing himself to his feet hastily. “I am very good at being fast, do you not remember my stellar agility in the war?”

“Yes, Minister, but this is different,” Edelgard sighed wearily. 

“And I am the best cavalier here!” Ferdinand insisted, “The trails are still slick with snow! I can safely navigate them. Please, I will be very helpful.”

“Hm. He is right, Edelgard. I am not one for horses,” Petra frowned. “I am better on my own feet.”

“I understand, but,” Edelgard was just as insistent, “that’s besides the point. Ferdinand, you are my remaining minister! I need you here to keep things under control.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” Ferdinand had no time to be apprehensive. He squared his shoulders and stared down at the emperor with his big brown eyes, “but I believe you, Byleth, and Lysithea make a more than capable group. I have utmost trust in your ability to hold up fort while we are away.”

She looked over the confidence on his face for a moment, and sighing, she put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Alright, Ferdinand. Alright. You win. I’ll let you have this, so long as you bring back Hubert in one piece.”

He lit up and grabbed her hand off his shoulder, shaking it as if congratulating her on something. “Thank you, Edelgard, thank you! You will not regret it!”

Ferdinand began to load the bags onto horses of his choice. Edelgard hugged Dorothea goodbye, and the songstress was soon observing the fine gray mare Ferdinand had picked for her. The emperor drew Petra into a long hug.

“I am so sorry for this,” Edelgard whispered sorrowfully into the princess’s ear, “After all I’ve put you through for this country of mine, I shall take Hubert’s blame upon my shoulders.”

Petra gently pulled back from the hug, still gripping Edelgard’s shoulders, “Nonsense. Hubert is a friend. We are doing this for him. This is not out of service.”

Edelgard gave her another quick embrace upon seeing the undeniable bitterness in Petra’s eyes. The women parted and Ferdinand hoisted Petra up onto a brown steed named Buttercup. He led the mounted women from the stable, the emperor standing back with her arms folded in the cold to watch. At last, he climbed atop his beloved steed, Evangeline. Into the glittering sheet of morning snow they rode. Edelgard waved at them until the disappeared against the gray and lavender sky.

She shuffled through the snow in her red boots, prepared to start a warm pot of coffee knowing Hubert would not be there to share it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet, I think! College is taking a toll on my brain. Hopefully I'll get the next chapter done faster. There's no beta for this and I have a tendency to write super late at night, so the grammar might go to hell towards the end (I fixed the misspellings of Lysithea's name in the previous chapter ahahah)
> 
> Btw I'm @Jelly_Flavored on twitter and OkapiandPaste on tumblr if anyone wants to cry about 3H to me. :^)


	4. The Chase Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edelgard and Lysithea are stressed messes. Hubert swears. Ferdinand makes himself sad as per usual.
> 
> ...And wait, the Slithers exist??

The maids didn’t bother the Emperor as she swept into the kitchen, boots wet and squeaking with snow melt, and towards the coffee machine. They parted for her like a flock of unperturbed finches, keeping their whispers to themselves. Maids were the eyes of the castle. Hubert had told her this many times, and he seemed to know each by name. The noble guests, however, had yet to awaken. Still, the maids appeared to have worked out everything that had happened last night on their own. Pouring the bitter coffee grounds, Edelgard lauded the women internally. At least they left her alone. She knew the rest of the Black Eagles would be swarming her with questions once they rose. The Emperor let out a sigh.

She sat down in the library with her hot cup. The smell of old paper and Dagdan brew filled her lungs, and for a wistful moment she was at peace. Flurries of snow glittered beyond the window panes, awashed in the lavender glow of early morning. She only hoped Hubert wasn’t stupid enough to freeze to death out there.

“Edelgard?” interrupted a weary voice through the silence.

The Emperor turned her gaze slowly away from the window. Lysithea stood stiffly besides a looming bookcase. Her rosy eyes were tired, dark bags of much-desired sleep prominent against her ghostly pale skin. She looked grim, perhaps because of the black and white dress she wore, and Edelgard’s stomach couldn’t help but twist in worried anticipation.

“Lysithea, please sit and have a drink. You look exhausted,” Edelgard gestured across the heavy wooden table. 

She couldn’t break the habit of bringing more than one cup with her. A lone saucer sat across from the Emperor, waiting vainly for Hubert to show as he usually did. Edelgard had hoped at least Byleth would magically appear like she always did in times like these, but Lysithea’s presence was a relief all the same. The grave woman nodded before she sank deeply into the empty library chair.

“You needn’t be up so early,” Edelgard scolded gently as she poured dark liquid from a simple white pot, “Worry all you please, but you are a guest. And, well, this is more my problem than yours, afterall.”

“Hmm,” the mage hummed distantly as she watched steam dance from the poured drink. She twirled a strand of her white hair in her fingers. “This has always been my problem, even longer than it has been yours. You cannot fight those monsters alone. I won’t let you.”

The Emperor retorted with nothing. Quietly, she lifted a ceramic lid and knowingly dropped a couple of sugar cubes into Lysithea’s drink. 

“Have you seen Ferdinand yet?” Lysithea asked, lifting the hot cup gratefully in her tired hands, letting the heat sink into her bones.

Edelgard blinked in surprise, nervously swirling her spoon, “Oh. Did you need him? I’m afraid he’s already left.”

“Left?” Lysithea sputtered, “for where?”

“For Hubert,” the Emperor sighed gratingly, holding her drink to her lips.

“Why am I not surprised?” the mage ground her teeth after swallowing. “Ferdinand’s attention span isn’t flattering. How forgetful.” 

“Is there something you need to tell him?” Edelgard lowered her cup and lifted her eyes, “or rather, tell me?”

If she wasn’t so tired, Lysithea would’ve flinched under that clever purple gaze. She balled her fists in her dark skirts and stared at her saucer. “I suppose I should tell you, too.”

Edelgard waited with chilling calmness.

“The word Hubert used in his note, Vengeance...that’s a tracking spell,” Lysithea said solemnly, “and I’m pretty sure I know what Those Who Slither are going to send after him. They’ll send the Javelins of Light. That’s why he ran. I’m sure of it.”

Coffee from Edelgard’s cup proceeded to be knocked all over the table.

\---

“Heel, Rhododendron. Heel! Stop, you damned animal!”

Ferdinand slowed down and inserted his steed between Dorothea and Petra with a brisk laugh. He grasped Dorothea’s reigns with one hand, “Rhode is not a dog, Dorothea! He is a noble steed, bred for things finer than being yelled at directly in his ear. Woa, boy, woa.” 

The horse finally slowed. Petra started laughing too.

“Well, I’m not noble,” Dorothea scoffed at the beast, “Perhaps you should’ve gotten me an ignoble horse, then, and maybe we would get along.”

“But, I only get the best for you, dear Dorothea!” gasped Ferdinand with half-baked offense.

Dorothea turned up her nose teasingly at him and trotted ahead. Petra stifled another laugh with a light snort, stroking the neck of her horse as she moved steadily onward. It was brighter now, and a thin sheet of wispy clouds dusted the air with twinkling flurries of snow dust. A burst of silence spurred them onwards. The three friends focused all attention on the slippery path below, blinking and squinting through the sharply cold, blinding world ahead of them. Ferdinand balanced himself easily on steed, reigns roped through one hand as he reached down to shuffle through the saddle back. Carefully, he brought out a parchment and spread it across the tops of his legs, holding it down with steady palms so the breeze of the ride wouldn’t steal it from him. 

“Which port would give us the quickest access to Almyra?” Ferdinand broke the silence at last, tracing a gloved finger across the map.

“I am knowing the ports to Brigid best, but,” Petra admitted, “Boramas is the closest eastern port from Enbarr. If we are not to be cutting through the mountain pass.”

Dorothea looked up at the silvery sky. The icy downfall of mist tickled the corners of her eyes. Of all the times for Hubert to run towards the Almyran hills, winter was the worst. Sweltering, sticky heat she could deal with. But the thought of slippery, bone shattering paths and heavy darkness, compounded by the harsh and lonely cold worried her to no end. She’d spent enough winters on the streets to hate the sight of snow. In the broiling anger of her gut, she hated Hubert for making her and Petra do this. She hated him for Ferdinand too, because she knew the poor fool couldn’t hate Hubert himself. Not truly, anyway. And still, innate worry nagged at the base of her throat. She hoped Hubert knew how to survive in the cold as well as she had learned to.

Ferdinand had trotted ahead again. His curly citrus locks shimmered behind him, and Dorothea sighed at the false warmth the orange hue gave her. At least she wasn’t alone. And to think, when all of this was said and done, she and Petra could spend time on the warm shores of Brigid, far, far away from the cold of Fodlan.

“How cold is it out at sea? I can’t stand this wretched weather. The sooner we’re away from it, the better, I say,” Dorothea grunted, daring to free one hand to brush through her ponytail. This much moisture and cold made for horrible knots.

“It is warmer at sea,” Petra consoled Dorothea, “Water currents are good at storing the heat.”

“Then Boramas it is,” sighed the songstress with relief, gaining again on Ferdinand at the eager thought of dry warmth beneath the deck of a ship.

“But,” suddenly Ferdinand was hesitating, unable to tear his eyes from the horizon, “wouldn’t that be too easy?”

“Oh my goodness, Ferdie. Why does that even matter?” Dorothea said irritably. Rhode snorted at something. “See? Even the horse agrees.”

“Um, well,” the Prime Minister chewed at his chilly, chapped lips, “Lysithea said…”

He broke off mid-sentence, brown eyes widening before he whirled his head to look at Dorothea, “Oh no, Lysithea! She promised me she would tell me the rest in the morning!” 

“Ferdinand, what is  _ the rest _ you are talking of?” Petra asked with such deep and utter confusion in her voice that Dorothea couldn’t help but sympathize. 

“Hubert is cursed!”

“Yes, and his bad luck has rubbed off on all of us,” Dorothea snorted.

“No, no, Dorothea!” Ferdinand worried his lip until a crack of blood peaked out from a seam, “He quite literally has a curse on him. A tracking spell. That is what Lysithea said. Those Who Slither will be coming after him! Did you not come to keep Petra safe? We must watch out for Those Who Slither!”

“Ferdie, why didn’t you tell us sooner! We’ve been travelling at a snail’s pace! And we’re being followed?” the healer scolded him, fear muting the peak of her anger.

“I was tired!” he retorted with a swift hand motion. The wind taunted the corners of his map and he quickly settled his hand back on it. “And I did not want you to slip! You never passed your Dark Knight exam after all and…”

“Oh, shut up, Ferdie!” snapped Dorothea, rushing Rhode forward a few yards to prove a point.

“Agreed. Shut up, Ferdie,” Petra echoed, hurrying Buttercup ahead too and leaving him blinking in the crystal snowdust of their wake. 

“A-anyways,” the Prime Minister stuttered unhappily, smoothing out his map while trying to keep up, “it is only Hubert being tracked. But if two groups are tracking the same person, they are bound to meet, are they not? It is best we avoid such a tragic rondevu for as long as possible.”

“We are to be taking the least predictable route,” Petra nodded with a grunt, pulling her reigns and slowing a bit. “We must outwit the prey and also the other predators. That is how the hunting beasts compete.”

Ferdinand swallowed. He didn’t like the sound of a competition to tear Hubert apart and eat him, but he knew the princess did not mean it that way, and so he agreed, “Yes, and so I suppose my old territory is out of the question, too. Besides, I think the port at Aegir gets most of their supplies from Morfis.”

“And where, pray tell, can we get to Almyra from, then?” Dorothea wondered into the air, watching her cold breath go up and away.

“Hrym,” Petra stated blunted, drawing as close as she safely could to Ferdinand’s side while peering over at the map. “Let us go to Hrym.”

“Hrym it is!” Ferdinand agreed hurriedly, not prepared to get on the women’s nerves again. He tried to score some points with Dorothea by adding, “and tonight we stay at Merceus. I will buy both of you the warmest meals, and we will drink fine ale to heat our weathered bones. In the morning, we will pay Jeritza a visit.”

“Alright,” Dorothea said with a half-hearted laugh, “don’t go overboard before we even get on a boat.”

None of them were very excited about paying Jeritza a visit.

\--- 

This was just one of many times in the last twenty-four hours that Hubert von Vestra proved himself a goddess-damned fool. He shoved his map angrily into his pack and peeked over the edge. Did he forget it was the start of winter? Did he forget he was fucking  _ terrified _ of heights? Hubert reeled back from the edge of the ravine, a heavy stone of fear pulling at his empty stomach. Crossing a rickety bridge stretching the Morgaine was one thing, but while it was slick with snow... while he was leading a stranger’s horse by the reigns? He must be insane. Escaping on a Rysalka supply boat seemed like a brilliant idea hours before. Now that he was low on sleep and shaking in his boots, Hubert thought otherwise.

He was well aware he couldn’t loiter like some coward at the start of the bridge. Vengeance was a timed thing. If he gave it a chance to lock onto his location, it was over. There would be another ravine if Thales got his way, and it would be called the Hubert Ravine, and oh goddess, if there was anything scarier than heights it was the dark magic he felt on that day after Arianrhod. Not wishing to be obliterated off the face of Fodlan, Hubert took his first hesitant step onto the bridge.

The horse seemed to be less troubled. Hubert had the reigns wrapped so tightly around his hand that it hurt, and his other hand was magnetically attached to the rope barrier that kept him from teetering into oblivion. Each and every board was tested with the carefullest attention of Hubert’s boots. Slush dripped and melted off the edges, plummeting into the misty morning nothingness that was below. The nothingness Hubert swore not to look at.

“Sothis. Where are the good, solid bridges when I fucking need them?”

It didn’t help that the bridge wiggled ever-so-slightly with every careless hoofbeat of the horse.

“Don’t you understand the situation we’re in? Mess this up and we both die, you damned pack animal. I’m sure you weren’t planning on becoming a horse pancake today, and frankly, I’d rather not die getting crushed between a horse and a pile of rocks. Ferdinand would make fun of me.”

Great. He was talking to a horse now. Ferdinand would certainly be happy about that, if not laughing his riding britches off at the pathetic state Hubert was in at the moment. A board then creaked a little too loudly for Hubert’s liking and he fell stone still only a third of the way across the ravine.

“Goddess dammit!” Hubert screamed, high-pitched and echoing over the ravine. “This is taking too long.” 

The horse got too close behind him, curious at his standstill and breathing its warm breath down his back, making Hubert jolt in surprise. The bridge jolted in response, and Hubert’s grip on the rope doubled down before he could double over. His blood was singing in his ears. 

“Oh hell. Oh HELL, you stupid creature!” he cried out, and after a deep breath, continued, “I am Hubert von fucking Vestra, and I am not afraid of heights! I won’t let this bridge  _ or _ this horse get the best of me.”

And there he was, acting like Ferdinand again, shouting his own name through a ravine like some sort of garish showman with the mouth of a sailor. He swore loudly a couple more times for good measure (and to sound less like Ferdinand) and lugged himself, and the blasted horse, the rest of the way across the bridge. His ears were ringing and Vengeance laughed painfully against his wrist at the time it took, but he did it. It was over, and he shamefully mounted again before galloping off towards Rysalka. 

He arrived at the port city with little interruption and no more talking to the horse. The air was warming, and with it the ground went from hard to muddy, the flurries in the air to a drizzle. With thinly veiled glee, and perhaps a bit of guilt for whoever the animal’s owner was, Hubert sold the poor horse to the first well paying merchant. He acquired more rations and a good wool cloak for the journey across the sea, and with a little asking around, he found out which ship was soon bound for the capital of Almyra. Allowing himself a weak moment of reminiscence, he looked back towards Fodlan. If the dark spell didn’t kill him, he feared Claude might. This was his last shot at taking out those who he so despised. Hubert warped himself into the cargo hold of the ship and hunkered down.

\---

Byleth would’ve liked to have awoken earlier. Ever since the end of the war, since the beat of a heart bloomed in her chest, she had been painfully exhausted. She slept like a rock at each and every chance. Perhaps this was what Linhardt felt like all of the time. She couldn’t run around like a maniac anymore, either. The convulsing muscle in her chest didn’t like it and her lungs felt aflame when she tried. A heartbeat wasn’t all it chalked up to be.

Rubbing her sticky eyes, the mercenary peered over the banister into the hall below. Edelgard was clutching a coffee pot, wearily fending off the anxious remarks her peers were drowning her with. Linhardt and Caspar were being particularly loud about it.

“Hubert did WHAT?”

“Ferdinand and Dorothea went _ where _ ?”

Byleth sighed. Now wasn’t the best time to talk to Edelgard. So, she whirled around on her heels and marched back to her bedroom. The Emperor had offered her a bigger room at first, but it was too grandiose for the humble mercenary. Small spaces or the great outdoors were more comfortable for Byleth, and she was never one for decoration either. 

A stuffed travel bag rested against the footboard of her bed. Byleth watched the small shadows of snowflakes dance over it for a moment before she lugged it up and tossed it against her pillows. Another sigh escaped her throat as she hesitantly opened the bag. She had figured Ferdinand would join Petra and Dorothea in their expedition. He cared deeply for Dorothea and Petra, and his particular fondness of Hubert had been partially encouraged by the professor herself, so all-and-all it was a simple prediction. With the Emperor’s right hand men gone, Byleth knew she couldn’t leave. It would be cruel to abandon Edelgard to the whims of fate now that the detested Those Who Slither were crawling up her back. Byleth despised them too and would do whatever was necessary to dispose of them for Edelgard, and for Hubert, and for all of Fodlan.

Still, she had her own concerns. A tactician at heart, there were dots she was connecting on her own time. Lifting an envelope tucked into the folds of her packed clothes, Byleth tiredly freed the months old letter and skimmed its contents. A blunt, one page story with curling letters peaked up at her. This wasn’t unusual. Jeritza was never one to be long-winded. Truly, she was surprised he had kept correspondence with her until now. He was bored, he would say in his letters each month, and the read itself would be a bore to anyone other than Byleth. The man would put in quips about his squires and apprentices, or toss in something about swords, that he knew she would enjoy if nothing else. 

These simple letters had become a constant in Byleth’s life. And so, when they abruptly stopped after the war, she had been more than disappointed. Jeritza seemed one for routine himself. She was more concerned than anything. After the big opera, she had planned to pay the Hrym estate a visit. Now was no longer that time. Byleth spilled the contents of the bag across the quilt, preparing to return everything to their spots in the room. Personal business wasn’t a priority. And still, she couldn’t help but feel this was another terrible omen.

\---

The three companions reached Merceus by evening. Snow had turned into light rain before dissipating into a clear sky, but as the day wore on, and they traveled further north, the cold turned the wet into a thin sheet of ice. Once they saw the shape of Fort Merceus in the distance, they promptly dismounted. Their legs ached, but they would make do. Ferdinand was grateful for the tread on his boots as they inched towards their first destination.

To the Prime Minister’s chagrin, the food at Merceus was not as stellar as he’d promised it would be. He didn’t know what he was expecting. It was a military base after all. Dorothea assured him it was fine and that it was warm, which was all she cared about. Petra nodded as she spooned hot broth into her mouth. Ferdinand irritably took a bite of hard bread.

The rooming situation was also disappointing. The soldiers tried their best to accommodate the Prime Minister and the princess of Brigid, but this supposed ‘best’ was merely a big room with a queen sized bed. A pretty view didn’t make up for the embarrassing fact that Ferdinand was promptly designated to the floor as soon as the suggestion left his mouth. Before he could pity his situation, he went and got them all ale.

Petra prodded the pine logs in the fireplace. Cross-legged on the rug, Dorothea kept one palm facing the fire while her other hand gripped firmly the handle of a mug. Foam rimmed her upper lip like a mustache and together, the three of them shared a hearty laugh. The beer was alright, but alright was just enough.

“Do not be drinking yourself silly,” Petra scolded Dorothea, “we must rise early and be careful.”

“Petra! You’ve gotten so much better at turns of phrase over the past few years!” Dorothea pointed out.

“What have I said?” the princess swirled the golden drink in her mug, watching the refraction of fire light through the faces of the glass.

“Drinking yourself silly,” Ferdinand tipped his mostly empty glass towards Petra. “Hm. Where did you learn that one? Are you one for drink?”

“I am thinking it was from Caspar. Or Alois.”

“Figures,” snorted Dorothea.

They finished their drinks and hurried themselves off to bed. At least, Petra and Dorothea did. The women tossed Ferdinand scraps off their table, throwing a few pillows and a blanket his way. He thanked them distantly and curled up on the carpet to observe the dying embers in the fireplace. The princess and the songstress fell asleep easily, alcohol and their shared closeness lulling them into a peaceful sleep. The Prime Minister, however, fret in his lonely space by the fire.

He was regretting this trip. What good was he doing, anyways? Petra and Dorothea were more than capable. A minister of his standing was supposed to be working in the castle beside the Emperor, giving her advice. That’s the only thing he was good for: his words. Ferdinand felt foolish and selfish. What was he thinking? A prime minister galavanting off on an adventure to find a wanted man... a ridiculous image, really. He was sad and he was moping, the taste of fermented barley on his tongue making him feel like the distraught soldier he was during the war. Edelgard and Hubert had promised him he was something more than that dreary frame of a soldier. They couldn’t be further from the truth. Hubert would laugh at him for coming to rescue him, he hoped. Hubert would laugh, but then he would excuse his foolishness and say it was a part of his charm. Hubert would say something, anything, Ferdinand hoped. Goddess, he just wanted that fool of a man to be alive. The bread from dinner was hardening in his stomach. Ferdinand hoped that this awful business wouldn’t take Hubert from them. Curling up in a ball and clutching a pillow to his chest, it took hours for sleep to win over his anxious thoughts.

\---

Thales’ death was the final straw. Pittacus had felt it in the core of her chest during a maintenance check deep within the belly of the electrical plant. It started there, in the middle of her body, shooting like lighting up her spine and fizzling out as a storm cloud in her head. She threw her wrench and screamed. The tool twanged off the metal of a Viskam generator and landed a few feet away as she clutched her head in her scarred hands. She knew everyone else had felt it too. Another one of their lives snuffed out by those primitive bastards. First, they had taken Kronya and Solon. Then they took Tyche, who had toyed around too much with Faerghus while she was in that Cornelia woman’s body. But now, they had taken out Thales, their leader and saving grace. He had grand plans to dismantle the surface dweller’s world and those damned Nabateans piece by miserable piece. And they had killed him in a simple, thoughtless heartbeat. After all that work, there was no way Agartha would throw away his dreams. The surface dwellers would pay.

“Have you figured out who did it yet?” Pittacus sneered as she watched Myson pace back and forth through the council room.

“We first received signals from Enbarr,” Myson mumbled, the mage never letting up his pace, “specifically, from the Mittlefrank opera house.” 

“An opera house? Pathetic. What in Nemesis’ name was he doing there?” Pittacus snarled, folding her arms.

An armored guard was standing in the corner of the room observing them, “Do not speak ill of our dead, Pittacus.”

The technician frowned sourly, but she understood. “Then, why haven’t we blown the place off the map yet?”

Myson’s pacing slowed. “We do not want to spoil the memory of Thales and his hard work. His plan was meticulous. If we want the realm above to suffer, we have to do it right. Our part with the Nabateans is done, but now we must teach the primitives to kneel for us.”

“Well, do you have any ideas, Chilon?” Pittacus insisted, rolling her eyes at the high-and-mighty talk of the dark mage.

The armored guard rocked on his heels, his obsidian armor washed in the blue light of the luminescent bands on the walls and floor, “Adrestia is, for our own guise, our ally. It must’ve been someone who knew his true identity. It could’ve been the Emperor or her crestless vassal.”

“Or the Fell Star. That one knows everything,” Pittacus grimaced, peering out the large glass window at the glistening, dark city spanning beyond. 

“It matters not,” concluded Myson. “We will be visiting the Adrestians to retrieve the relics soon, anyways. Once Vengeance’s target is locked, blow whoever it is sky high with a single missile, as long as none of our people are in the vicinity. That will be humanity’s first warning.”

“Got it,” Pittacus grunted, pushing herself off the long silver table she had been perched on. She adjusted the straps of her high black boots and clicked her tongue, “Anything else?”

“Get an opinion on this out of Patricia, would you?”

“Will do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY decided to use the rich text. Now my italics can show up, hell yeah. (I am a fool for not doing this sooner)
> 
> Okay wow this is about to get crazy now that I've shown off the Slithers. All of those names except Tyche are actual Agarthans from the game! Thanks FE Wiki :D
> 
> @Jelly_Flavored on Twitter


	5. An Ocean Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang visits a spooky mansion. Hubert sees a camel for the first time. Jeritza is...somewhere?

Yet another clear autumn day graced the two men as they sat down at a round garden table. The warm colors of dying imperial hedges circled around them like a fiery ring. It was cool outside, and despite it, Hubert was feeling hazy. His vision was fuzzy on the edges, the distant surroundings of his peripheral mere abstractions in comparison to the radiant view before him. Ferdinand often had that sort of effect.

“I think I have finally found a tea that perfectly suits your tastes,” the Prime Minister prided himself with a honey-laced laugh. “You would not  _ believe _ the trouble I went through to get this.”

Without complaint or voice, Hubert let him graciously pour the present into the porcelain cup in front of him. The blend was a translucent red-brown against the pearly cup, signaling a good sort of black tea. He sighed breathily at the predictability of it all.

Ferdinand blew steam from his own drink, peaking over the rim with his curious autumn eyes, “Please try it.”

Shrugging, Hubert lifted the pale porcelain to his lips. The brew smelled familiar, but he couldn’t place it. And so, he tasted it. At first, it burned like any hot drink just free from the kettle. Then, the taste went tangy on his tongue. For a heartbeat, he swore it was tangerine. His vision bled orange with the seared image of Ferdinand’s curly, twisting locks. But, as soon as it started, it was over. The taste was most certainly not that of citrus. He sputtered in horror at the undeniable taste of iron. Of blood.

Ferdinand merely chuckled at his coughing fit, “Oh, I guess I was wrong again. That is too bad. Do you hate it that much?”

Wiping his searing mouth with the back of his glove, leaving bright stains on the fabric, Hubert stuttered, “W-what in the world  _ is _ this drink?” The flavor wouldn’t go away.

“So, you  _ do _ hate it. I will try better next time,” the Prime Minister sighed, taking a sip from his own cup.

Hubert wanted to shout at him for his obliviousness, but he found himself gagging instead. He cupped his hands over his mouth, and with a shudder, started spitting up blood into his spoiled gloves.

“Did you--did you  _ poison _ me?” he managed, betrayal and acrid burning making his voice raw. Tears caught in the corners of his vision as he braced himself against the table. “Ferdinand, _ answer me _ .” 

“But, Hubert,” Ferdinand pouted, his own tears leaving dark red tracks down his rosy cheeks, “I thought you _ liked _ the sight of blood.”

The Prime Minister looked at the shivering man across the table with frightening sincerity as the viscous red liquid began to stream from his mouth, as if he was a morbid fountain statue. Then, he started to rot away like old wood, peeling back to reveal a skeleton weeping within --Hubert couldn’t help but scream himself awake.

\---

Squeak was perhaps a more accurate description. As loud as he had cried out in his dream, the sound he released in reality could have been easily mistaken for a seasick rat hiding amongst the crates. His palpable embarrassment mixed with his lingering dread as he forced his sticky eyelids open. Hubert blinked in the darkened belly of the ship. Wedged uncomfortably amongst barrels and crates of Adrestian vegetables, the minister huddled in on himself. His heartbeat railed against his ribs and taunted his stomach into nausea. The uneven rocking of the ship wasn’t helping either. Shakily, he pulled some of his rations free of his bag and stuffed himself. The emptiness of his stomach was more easily settled than the hollow in his mind at the moment. A gray, early morning sea rolled on endlessly beyond the small, circular window Hubert had situated himself by. 

It would cool his nerves to get up and walk about, but Hubert ground his teeth through that desire. Stowaway as he was, moving from his hiding spot was just asking for himself to be discovered. The arrival at Almyran shores would prove far more difficult than staying put in the ship. Current relations between the Empire and Almyra were tense, and every ship was to be thoroughly checked upon reaching Almyran docks. And so, for that moment, he allowed the temporary safety of the sea and the wall of goods around him to be of comfort.

\---

The roads from Fort Merceus boasted a good sheet of ice when Ferdinand woke early that morning. He’d expected as much, and didn’t bother waking the two sleeping women whose faces were tinted rose from alcohol and shared warmth. Staring out into the glistening gray, the Prime Minister leaned against the white brick rim of the fort and took in the view. Guards and soldiers shuffled past him with curt nods and few words.

He then went to check the horses. The stable at Merceus was far more cramped than the Imperial stable. Horses of every color, pedigree, and background rested in their stalls, and Ferdinand quietly admired them as he walked by. Ferdinand recognized his own horses immediately. Rhode, Buttercup, and his own ride, Dante, seemed surprisingly well-rested despite the new, cramped conditions. They must have been exhausted from the trip there, he supposed, and he only wished he could rest as carelessly as they did.

“Slept well, have you?” Ferdinand cooed to his chestnut stallion as he passed him an apple he had spirited away from the kitchen. He pressed a palm against the horse’s velvety nose as he chewed contently. 

As much as the Prime Minister’s nerves flared at the thought of meeting with the infamous Count Hrym again, he couldn’t help but be relieved that his horses would remain somewhere safe while he traveled overseas. Jeritza was a cavalier himself. And if he remembered correctly, his dark mare was a rather well-bred, well-kept beast indeed.

Something shuffled across the dusty stable floor towards him, and he was pulled from his thoughts. Still stroking Dante’s muzzle, he turned to see Petra with her hands on her hips.

“Ah. I was thinking to find you here,” she said with a small smile, unsurprised.

“You know me well,” Ferdinand responded with a voice much smaller than intended. He cleared his throat. Dante shifted at the sound. “Where is Dorothea?”

“Still getting ready,” Petra explained, yawning as she jabbed a thumb in the direction behind herself. “The guards are saying it is safe to travel soon.”

Ferdinand nodded and began to prepare the saddles, straps, and reigns. Dante huffed at Ferdinand unhappily, as if unready to have his freed hide hindered again by the leather and bits. “I am sorry, boy,” consoled Ferdinand as he hoisted a saddle over his shoulder, “It is not much further, I promise. Then you will get a nice, long rest.”

After preparing the horses, Petra and Ferdinand hurried away to join Dorothea for a quick breakfast in their room. They kept quiet in their subdued panic, and once they had finished their meal, they bid their hosts a quick goodbye. The great metal maws of Merceus lifted for the three friends on horseback. Out into the midday cold they rode, Ferdinand at the head with a map in his lap. They kept their talk casual. No one wanted to acknowledge the things that were likely stalking in their shadows.

It was a good, long ride to the Hrym territory. If the circumstances had been different, Ferdinand would have thought the trip rather nice. The sky was an icy blue, tilting into a grayish lavender as the day wore on. Song birds twittered amongst the branches of dead trees. They worked the bark and hard ground for any semblance of food. Ferdinand sighed as he wondered how Hubert was fairing. How far behind him were they? Would they make it to the Almyran capital in time before he decided to go on the run again? A pit grew in his stomach at the unpredictability of it all. He prided himself on knowing Hubert well. Now, he couldn’t help but feel he had been lying to himself.

Only a few small caravans of merchants passed them by as they neared Hrym. The Hrym territory felt eerily empty, Ferdinand concluded once he caught sight of the estate surrounded by great, twisting oaks over the hill they cantered along. Albeit, the cold was likely responsible. Really, those merchants probably thought the three of them were quite mad riding without a carriage like they did. Still, the looks Petra gave to her surroundings, and then to him, kept his nerves on edge as they rode up to the mansion.

Ferdinand didn’t want to say it, but this was  _ exactly _ what he imagined a vampire’s mansion would look like. Or perhaps, a more egregious thought, how the von Vestra mansion must have looked. It was an imposing, gothic thing. All dark brick with faded white trim and curling creeper vines that were red or dying in the change of weather. The gardens were poorly tended to, and the stone fountain circled by a gravel path was not running, and likely hadn’t been for some time. Sliding from his mount, Ferdinand clicked his tongue. It was such a shame for a nice place like this to go to waste. He hoped his own estate was fairing better in his absence, if Edelgard ever had a moment of peace to give it back to him like she’d returned his name at the end of the war.

Dorothea tsked at the state of the place, too, as Petra helped her down, “Well, this is a boorish sight, don’t you think?” 

“You shouldn’t say it,” Petra scolded quietly and sheepishly, clearly in agreement with Dorothea’s sentiment.

Nervously, Ferdinand took the great silver knocker in his fingers and knocked the dark door thrice. He stared at the metal bird head that angrily held the ring as he waited uncomfortably for someone to hear.

The door swung open so suddenly and fiercely that it made Ferdinand jump and Dorothea grip onto the Brigid princess’ arm. A young squire stood in the open door, disgruntled and excited. His ecstasy quickly faded into disappointment and then a frown when his gaze focused on Ferdinand. 

Angling the door between himself and the unexpected guests like a shield, the boy narrowed his eyes and questioned, “What exactly do you want?”

Ferdinand blinked his brown eyes. Did he really not recognize them? No matter. “ _ Ah _ ,” he took a short breath to steady himself, “Well, I am Prime Minister von Aegir, and these are my two dear friends, Dorothea and Petra, princess of Brigid”-

“What sort of business do people like you have in a place like this?” the squire’s face was shadowed by the door as he looked at them with suspicion crackling in his shaded eyes.

“I beg your pardon?” Ferdinand retorted with genuine confusion, suddenly flabbergasted beyond his own comprehension. 

Petra wedged him aside and got closer to the boy, “We are war companions of Count von Hrym. We have come to be visiting with him. May we come in to see?”

The door was inched open again. Dorothea and Ferdinand were impressed. The princess had her own way with the Fodlan language, and by Goddess, did she have a good handle on just how to use it. Dismally, the boy looked between Petra and her friends. 

“He isn’t here,” he admitted apologetically. “He hasn’t been for months.”

“ _ Oh _ ,” Petra faltered. Her mulberry eyes became suddenly alert, her royal posture bent like a bow at the ready. The abrupt raising of her guard made Ferdinand swallow. “That is most unfortunate.”

The boy scrubbed the back of his curly hair as he looked pitifully between the three of them. Dorothea hugged herself in layered clothes, shivering with cold and worry. “Um, well, I suppose it couldn’t  _ hurt _ to let you stay,” he sighed, “von Hrym wouldn’t want me to turn friends into the cold.”

None of them believed this sentiment, but they didn’t dare correct the boy. The two women hurried inside, ready to be free of the winter wind, but Ferdinand lingered on the doorstep.

“Is there somewhere I can put our horses?”

The boy peeked out and pointed a frail hand to his right, “Just around the corner, you’ll see the stable. It’s a bit messy...I’m sorry. It’s been hard taking care of it with so little help.”

Ferdinand raised his eyebrows before nodding gratefully and returning to his impatient steeds.

The Hrym mansion was poorly lit. Old, curling candelabras branched from the stones on the wall, dark wax growing down like stalactites from the holds, the candles themselves nearly burnt to their ends. Dorothea noticed discolored rectangles on the starkly empty walls as the boy led them onward. Certainly, there had been portraits there once. She wondered where they had gone and why they had been removed, and she slipped her fingers gingerly into Petra’s grasp as she fretted. The princess drew closer to her.

“What’s your name?” Dorothea asked tentatively, voice a whisper as if anything louder would awake some beast sleeping in such a grim place.

The boy looked around before turning a corner and beckoning them, “It’s Roderic.” 

Dorothea nodded at him sadly. “Are you alone? Are there no servants?”

Roderic led them into a small living area. “There are some here and there, but there were more before. They’ve been leaving one by one, ever since the Count left. I think...they might believe he’s not coming back.”

The songstress clenched her jaw. This was getting too eerie for her liking. Petra threw herself on a dusty velvet loveseat with a huff, accidentally knocking off a few of the decorative pillows in the process, and let out an undignified, “Whoops!”

A smile cracked onto Dorothea’s face. Just being near dearest Petra was enough to give her respite.

“I’ll get one of the butlers to make you some hot tea,” Roderic offered politely. “And then I’ll go find wherever that Prime Minister has gotten too.”

The boy had been right. The stable was, infact, a mess. Rhode and Buttercup’s reigns were looped around Ferdinand’s hands as he led them, Dante following loyally behind on his own. While his horses didn’t seem to mind, the stench of wet hay and dung was slightly unbearable. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what this stink would’ve been in summer weather. The Prime Minister scrunched up his nose as he kicked open the crooked wooden door. Horses stared at him from their stalls like he was some sort of intruder. 

Ferdinand muttered in embarrassment to himself under their watchful eyes as he brought each of his horses to an empty stall. He told each of them sorry, and felt even sorrier still for the poor squire who would have even more to clean up for a few weeks. Or perhaps forever, if it got down to it. The smell of dug became putrid in his throat. This was no time to worry over what-ifs.

As he hurried to leave and finally get out of the cold, Ferdinand felt a soft nose press against his shoulder. A dark horse flared her nostrils against the fabric there, looking at him with curious, saddened eyes. He stroked the side of her warm head. She stayed very still, huffing hot air into his face until he finally noticed the nameplate on the door of her stall. The inscription called her “Hestia”. Ferdinand’s eyes widened. He _ knew _ that name. He  _ knew _ this horse, and this horse evidently knew him. It was Jeritza’s. And if there was one thing he knew about the mysterious man, it was that he _ always _ rode with Hestia, no matter where he went. 

Ferdinand ran as quickly as his feet could carry him. He couldn’t stand another moment alone with his thoughts.

\---

When the ship pulled into the briny Almyran docks, Hubert hissed quietly at the seaward view from his window. If he couldn’t see the docks and what was beyond, he couldn’t predict the distance he’d need for his Warp spell. The sorcerer peeked tiredly around a crate. Heavy built sailors were already hauling the shipments up and out into the daylight. There was no way he could slink to the windows on the opposite side without being seen, and Hubert wasn’t prepared to send a dark spell spiraling into an unwitting innocent. So, the real guessing game had begun.

He pulled a piece of chalk from his deep pockets and lightly etched probability formulas on his side of a crate. The width of the ship was taken into account, plus enough extra distance to put landing in the water out of the equation. The rest was up to fate. Hubert was advanced enough not to require written formulas, but in this situation it was better to be safe than sorry. He didn’t feel like ending up with his body halfway buried in the dirt, crushed under the weight of unrelenting physics. Breathing quietly through his nose, Hubert drew a magic circle around his equations. There. This would keep his body where it was meant to be.

The sailors were getting uncomfortably close to his hiding space. Hubert reached out

and grazed the chalk scribbles with his fingertips. He cast his spell, and warped himself away in a fizzle of pink.

For the record, where he landed wasn’t as terrible as falling into frigid ocean waters or finding himself part way in some solid object. However, that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. The smell was so rancid it nearly knocked him senseless after the jump. When Hubert’s head stopped swimming, his eyes opened to reveal a massive, droopy lipped, horse _ -thing  _ directly in his face. He scrambled back like a startled crab. The creature blinked its dark, scrubby eyelashes and continued chewing its cud nonchalantly. Hubert had evidently found his way into the beast’s meal. The heels of his boots dug into mud and some more  _ unpleasant  _ things he would suffer for later, his hands fisting straws of loose, dry hay.

The creature lifted its head, stretching out its long neck to tower over the spontaneous foreigner. Hubert swallowed. So  _ that _ was what camels looked like. Book illustrations did such a strange animal no justice. He was soon snapped out of his fearful admiration as a stout man came pushing through the tent flaps, shouting things in a language Hubert was all too unfamiliar with. It was definitely Almyran. He knew that much, but he could only catch a pronoun or two here and there. Hubert ogled the man with his overwhelmed greenish eyes.

Realizing his words were doing no good, the man sighed and gave the camel a pat on its dusty shoulder, saying something quietly to it as he shook his head. He brought his stumpy, work-worn fingers to his nose in exasperation.

“Stupid Fodlani,” he said in words he hoped the gangly man would understand, “You are sitting in camel dung.”

Hubert grimaced and slowly pulled himself to his knees. He could feel, and no doubt could smell the manure clinging to his cape. He grit his teeth. He had already lost a pair of gloves, what more was the loss of his cape?

“Forgive my intrusion,” Hubert told the camel’s owner, tongue unfortunately heavy. “I seem to be lost.”

The man laughed at him impatiently, “You walk into a tent of camels when you are lost? Hmm.”

“I was drunk,” Hubert lied. It wasn’t farfetched, considering how wobbly he felt as he stood up in front of the massive camel. 

The short man clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Buy camels or leave. We are not an inn.”

“Alright, alright,” the minister huffed as he dusted off his knees. “Which way to the capital, then?” 

“Buy camels or leave,” the man repeated insistently.

“Can I _ rent  _ a camel?” 

“No,” the man folded his arms and smiled through a tightened jaw, “No rent. Only buy.”

“I see,” Hubert clicked his tongue and furrowed his brow. This was going to be a long day. “I’ll excuse myself then.” The minister scooted around the camel nervously.

The merchant and his camel exchanged glances and the foreigner nervously walked by the rest of the bulky, long-legged beasts, staring at them as if they would swallow his head.

“They spit,” the man warned teasingly. Hubert scurried out of the tent quickly at this. He could hear the man laughing in his wake.

Grumbling, he unclasped his dirtied cape and threw it aside before readjusting his bags. The sun was seering and bright, and although the day was cool, it wasn’t agonizing without a cape on his back. Almyra was a warm and dry place for most of the year. Hubert tested the hard ground at his feet, relieved to be free of that wretched boat, and morphed into a nearby crowd. People could be heard chattering in a variety of languages. The smell of pack-animals, fish, and mouth-watering fried food lingered funnily together in the bustling air. For once, he was glad for such a crowd. It would keep him hidden.

Now, if only he knew where he was. The crowd was too occupied and noisy to hear his requests for directions. Street vendors busied themselves with cooking or loud advertising. Hubert chewed his lip in frustration as he pushed through the travelers and merchants. As he made his way through the ebb and flow of people, the runaway caught sight of the distinctive Almyran architecture. The walls were made of fine, light colored material, so unlike the heavy-set red or gray bricks of Enbarr. Some of the buildings were painted delightful shades of blush pink or sky blue. A woman beat a rug over the side of a small balcony above the crowd. Pigeons crowded on clotheslines. 

Deirdru was the only place he could compare it too. The thought made him guilty. Deirdru, the city where they had last seen Claude. Where they had spared him, but not his friends. Hubert swallowed and pushed forward, ducking into a narrow alleyway. Claude would not be happy to see him, no doubt. He deserved every cruel look he would get. And if Claude rejected his presence completely? The minister sighed and began to ascend a ladder built up the side of a pinkish building.

If Claude would not help him, then he would walk himself into the barren desert and hope to die of thirst before the Javelins blew him to pieces. Such a morbid thought should’ve shaken him to his bones. But, when he reached the roof and saw what he did, it took his breath away.

A domed wonder glistened in the center of the city, spires rising up and twinkling around it like the ancient spears of giants. That was why the camel salesman had mocked him. This  _ was _ the capital.

\---

Pittacus knocked on the metallic door once. Twice. All she could hear was the quiet, electric buzz of the blue bulbs on the low ceiling. The electrician started to jiggle the doorknob impatiently.

“Hellloooo, Patricia? Can you let me in?” She stood there a while longer, scuffing her black boots against the cool floor.

At last, the complex inner workings of the door began to grind and move. A turquoise pattern lit up on the door’s face, soon fading and opening just a crack. Patricia sat by her window. Her long hair was undone, rosy and flecked silver with age, draping over the back of a wooden chair as she hummed to herself. Pittacus would never get used to this room and all it’s strange Upper Realm trinkets. It smelled woody and dusty and earthen. “Rustic” as Patricia called it. Nothing like the clean polish of Agarthan design.

“Patricia,” Pittacus said sullenly, sitting on the edge of the alien bed. She brushed her fingers along the plush, worn fabric. “Can we talk?”

Slowly, almost automaton-like in motion, Patricia turned her head towards the Agarthan woman. “What about?”

She was doing something with her hands. Large, colored needles hooked and unhooked string in a fluid, patterned way, not unlike the way Pittacus would toy with wires. Still, the work seemed so mundane, she wasn’t quite sure how Patricia didn’t bore from it. 

“Er, it’s about Edelgard,” Pittacus hesitated. This was an endlessly touchy subject. She hated how innately Patricia cared for that girl. Edelgard was a traitor. Agarthan in blood but so set on primitive ways, casting aside the drive for knowledge and science with a simple, vain desire for  _ peace _ . Agarthans knew there was no such thing as peace. They were smarter than that.

Patricia lit up at the name and put her work down in her lap, “Finally! It’s been an age, has it not? Will someone please tell me how she’s doing?”

Pittacus cleared her throat, “Well, I’m afraid she’s gone against our...ah... _ treaty _ . Someone in her ranks is responsible for Thales’ death.”

The woman’s face soured. “Oh. I see. And I suppose you are going to make her pay for that. Aren’t you.”

It wasn’t a question. Pittacus laced her fingers together. “Well. That’s what I came to talk about. We don’t know who did it just yet. We were wondering...what do you propose we should do? You know the most about the Uplanders, afterall.”

Patricia let out a thoughtful sigh and got back to her motions. The needles clicked together. The Upper Realm was a touchy subject too. Any poor talk of the place and she would shoot daggers or perhaps worse, a spell or two. She was just like her father, whether Pittacus liked it or not. Genius and dangerous, but too disgustingly soft for the world they lived in.

“Bring her here,” Patricia decided quietly. “Let her see what she’s been missing.”

\---

The evening grew dark quickly through the unkempt window panes of the Hrym mansion. A dangling chandelier and a small fireplace bathed the lonely dining room in a warmish light as the guests tensely swallowed their meals. Ferdinand poked at the potatoes floating in his soup. A butler hovered by his shoulder attentively, pleased but stern at the presence of new visitors. 

“Please sit,” Dorothea offered to the straight-backed man, sensing Ferdinand’s discomfort from across the massive table. “You must have worked yourself to the bone making such a nice meal all on your own.”

He took a small bow, and with a sigh, settled next to the young Roderic on the far end. Roderic had already surrendered to the temptingly empty table and heaped vegetables and slices of fish on his plate, drowning the fillet in enough plum sauce to kill a horse. He gulped watered-down wine from an old goblet, relishing in the fullest meal he’d had in weeks.

Petra skewered a string bean with her fork. “It is lonely here. Is the Hrym territory always being quiet?”

Roderic glanced at the butler as the older man began serving himself some of the white fish. “Hmm,” the boy considered his words carefully, “People tend to keep their distance from this mansion.”

“I can’t possibly see why,” Dorothea said, teetering on the edge of sincerity and sarcasm.

“Folks say this place is cursed,” the butler noted cooly as he tipped a pitcher into his goblet, “The rest of the Hryms were murdered here, after all.”

Perhaps if the three of them knew nothing of the Death Knight, they would’ve been surprised. Still, they exchanged looks over their meals. Dorothea recalled the empty portrait hall, the pale rectangular traces of once-hung frames burned into her mind’s eye.

“Was there any reason why such a tragic thing occurred?” Ferdinand wondered out loud through his fork.

Roderic observed the butler expectantly. “Well,” the older man explained reluctantly, “they were involved in some _ questionable  _ operations. A black market exchange of sorts. They dealt with magical items and old, strange technology the likes of which I’d never seen before.”

Ferdinand seperated a thin, translucent rib from his fish. He wished Lysithea had finished telling him what she had meant to say.

“And,” the butler lowered his voice to a whisper, “they dealt with  _ people _ , too, I’m afraid. We still get approached by odd, shady figures now and again. I’m not surprised the other servants ran for the hills.”

Dorothea lost her appetite. She pushed around her food to the edges of her plate like a child would in the face of greener vegetables. 

“It’s nice to have friendly visitors for once, though,” Roderic chirped up, sensing the heavy air settling down. “It gets lonely here, and I’m sure Jeritza would’ve been happy to see you.”

The three of them felt enough pity to keep the truth to themselves. If the servants were going to offer travelers a place to stay over the night, they might as well feign a friendship with the brutal cavalier that called this husk of place home. 

Ferdinand received his own bed that night. But, he would’ve rather slept on the hard floor in the womens’ bedroom again. At least then he would be comforted by the presence of a princess and a sorceress. Now, he was alone, staring at the plain ceiling. Scraggly trees shivered outside the window, casting spidery shadows over the floor. The Prime Minister knew no sleep would ever come to him in this house. He huddled like a frightened turtle in the covers. He didn’t bother putting out the candlestick beside his bed. And even when exhaustion tempted to take over, some sound from  _ somewhere _ would jolt him back up.

Creaking footsteps could just be one of the few remaining housekeepers wandering about, the scratching sounds merely the shaking trees outside. The winter wind whispered around the shape and bend of the house. He thought he heard an owl once. But eventually, as the night ticked on into unbearable hours, he heard the unmistakable sound. A ghostly cry echoed somewhere far away.

This time, Ferdinand shot from his bed. He waited, hoping his tiredness was merely driving him mad, but then it sounded again. His throat clenched. His feet were freezing as he slipped from the bed and into his shoes. The candle on the bedside table was melting dangerously low, but he picked up the brass holder. Flickering and shivering in his frightened and feeble grasp, the tiny flame was held before him as a last line of defense. Ferdinand was scared, but he was no coward. Quietly, he opened his door and crept into the hallway.

The chilling sound wormed its way through the halls like a cold breeze, effortlessly bouncing down the starkly empty space. Ferdinand followed it like a shimmering string in the dark. It took him down the spiral stairs and back to the first floor. He passed the darkened parlor and then the dining room. Yes, it was definitely an agonized, human sound. It was getting louder now, and soon, he found himself standing in front of a cellar door.

Swallowing, the Prime Minister could only hear the sound and the beating of his heart in his chest. Candle wax pooled over the dip of the holder and dripped hot and fresh onto his bare hands. He didn’t dare hiss in pain. All he could think about were the butlers words and Hestia still in the stables. Gulping down his fear, he gratefully picked up a lantern propped beside the door and lit it with his dying candle.

He descended the staircase into the musty cellar. Suddenly, he fully respected the professor’s decision to teach him Reason magic. It was frightening being without a good lance or sword in this situation, but a good Thoron could teach whatever might be waiting for him down there a lesson. If there _ was  _ anything.

There was nothing. And yet, there was  _ everything _ . The lantern rattled in Ferdinand’s shaking grip. Down amongst the barrels of liquor, there was a gaping hole in the wall. It was perfectly curved in its symmetry, unnatural in every way, cold air and the echoing cries trembling out from it. The most damning thing about the tunnel was the walls. On the fine, smooth stone of the endlessly going tunnel, there was a pulsing pattern. Veins of blue light striped down the tube. Tiny bluish lanterns were attached to the roof of it, humming with energy. All Ferdinand could think of was that strange man way back when. The man who made the darkness swallow the professor, who had the same odd veins of light on his arms. He was one of those body-thieving, uncomfortably pale people who were trying to obliterate Hubert for the death of their leader.

Ferdinand backed up breathlessly, “I think...I think I need to wake up Petra and Dorothea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this took forever to pump out, so you'll have to excuse me. This is the last chapter before everything goes batshit :^) I've also been battling college and zines and whatnot, so yeah, hooray for delays! I've had the dream sequence on the brain for WEEKS. but otherwise this wasn't very exciting to write oof. 
> 
> I'm hype for the next chapter tho. (I have to go back and fix all my "Adrestria" typos first...it's Adrestia!)


	6. Spine and Tooth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guns. Boats. But no gunboats (and no Hubert?) ):

The Black Eagles had been restless ever since the departure of the Brigid princess and her companions. A new plate of cookies ended up on Lysithea’s desk every evening, provided by Bernadetta’s habit of stress baking, and Lysithea worriedly indulged herself as she poured over papers scavenged from Hubert’s room. Edelgard would work distractedly on her letters and requests in the library. Sometimes she was in the company of Byleth or with Lysithea, but today she had been as unfortunate as to grab Caspar’s attention. 

He had never been one for reading or studying. The stout blue haired man settled instead for pacing the rows of books and going round and round the tables. It was harder to focus than usual with that colored blur circling her like a fruit fly. 

“ _ Caspar _ ,” the Emperor sighed with exasperation, “do me a favor and sit. Drink some of this tea or go make yourself a meal, I beg of you.”

Caspar brushed a hand through his spiky, disheveled hair. “Geez, am I distracting you? I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I really am. It’s just...I’ve been so stressed. I feel so... so  _ useless _ , ya know?”

Edelgard raised an eyebrow and looked on sternly as Caspar wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “We are all stressed, Caspar. I understand completely,” she assured him, dipping a small shortbread into her teacup, “but, we must keep our composure for now. It’s all we can do without forcing things further out of hand.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he nodded gravely, pulling out a chair from across the Emperor and hunkering down. Caspar put his hands on his knees and stared intensely at the unrecognizable reflections on the decorated teapot.

The Emperor sipped her bergamot tea and questioned, “Is there something else on your mind?”

“Ah. You got me,” Caspar smiled nervously as he picked up a spare teacup. The delicate shape of the floral porcelain against his bulky, gauntlet-worn hands was almost funny. “To think, Linhardt and I were supposed to be traveling right now. But now, he’s all wrapped up in his studies again! I know he finds all that dark magic stuff interesting, but it just makes me uncomfortable.”

Edelgard nodded sympathetically as she poured her friend some lukewarm tea. She had a distaste for the dark arts, too, and had only grown any fondness for it through Hubert and then years later, through Lysithea. Though Linhardt was inclined towards white magic, he had jumped at the opportunity to observe Thales’ remains. The request had made Lysithea uneasy too, but if they could learn anything additional about the enemy through it, then Edelgard had to concede. Better to have one less person pulling her hair for the next few days.

“Once this situation blows over,” Edelgard said, not allowing the hopelessness she felt to warp her words, “you and Linhardt will be off the hook. You can go wherever you please whenever you care to do so. I will find someone else to hold onto your responsibilities.”

A genuine smile lit up Caspar’s face “Well, that’s real nice of you, Your Majesty,” he thanked her timidly.

“After sticking with me all these years, you two deserve nothing less,” Edelgard closed her eyes and savored her drink, finding a brief moment of peace.

The peace hardly lasted, as it never did, when Lysithea came running into the room out of breath. Her sleeves were rolled up as far as they could go. Lingering magic danced patterns up her arms, her pink eyes glowing and her usual viel misplaced. 

“ _ Edelgard _ !” she exclaimed shakily.

The Emperor rose, teacup clattering to its saucer. “My goodness, Lysithea! What is going on?”

Scrambling up to her, the pale woman held out an arm, wrist upturned for Edelgard to see. Amidst the glow of magic, a strange black mark reminiscent of the capital letter E jumped out against her skin.

“Lysithea,” Edelgard breathed, fearfully taking up the marked hand in her own. Caspar was standing now too. “What exactly _ is _ that?”

The dark mage let herself catch her breath for a short moment. Then, locking those vibrant, all too familiar eyes with Edelgard’s own echo of purple, she said, “It’s the lingering Vengeance spell. I think I picked it up when I lifted the letter from Thales’ body.”

“This... _ this can’t be _ . Lysithea, I thought you said only the perpetrator receives the curse,” Edelgard gasped helplessly. Lysithea’s hand was frail in her own snowy hand, the skin still raw from whatever magic she had performed, the blue veins of her blood as clear as rivers in a valley.

“I...It’s an ancient spell. I can’t know everything about it. This mark is only half of the true Vengeance sigil. It normally goes full circle, but...I can still feel the dark magic. It stings,” the woman worried.

All the while, the wheels in Caspar’s head had been turning. And suddenly, when things fell into place, he crashed for the library door shouting, “ _ Linhardt! _ ” 

\---

Ferdinand, Petra, and Dorothea left in the darkest hour of morning. Petra didn’t even wait for Ferdinand to stutter out the last of his tale before scooping the drowsy Dorothea out of bed and leaving the room. The wailing had died down. It didn’t matter. The Brigid princess trusted Ferdinand’s fear.

Pitying the butler and the boy Roderic for having to vanish under their noses, they left a fast note on the kitchen counter to say they were thankful, safe, and sound. Ferdinand placed a good few coins on the counter for taking care of the horses. The three of them linked hands as they walked through the pitch dark to the stables. Fear kept them in silence.

Dorothea lit a lamp in the stable with a quick flick of her hand. Ferdinand could see the bags under the songstress’ eyes when the orange light washed over her face.

“It smells disgusting in here,” Dorothea muttered quietly, hiking her night skirts. She did not want the rancid hay bedding to catch on her trim. “I almost feel bad for Rhode.  _ Almost _ .”

The horses nickered at the new light. Ferdinand clicked his tongue as he began pulling supplies from the saddle bags. “Have some more pity,” he whispered, “Let us hope we can come back for the poor things.”

Neither of the women responded, and they wallowed in things left unsaid as they gathered only what they needed. Ferdinand felt Hestia puff his neck as he passed back and forth. He gave her a mournful pat. Once they had secured supplies on their backs, Dorothea put out the lamp. Darkness would be their shield until sunrise.

Petra led them. Her eyes adjusted quickly, observing the world critically in a black and white grain. Ferdinand walked in the middle, left hand in Petra’s deft fingers, right hand slipped into Dorothea’s magic-patterned palm. All was dark to him, and he prayed for the morning sun soon. Dorothea’s free hand was on the ready. A Thoron or two would slow down any unwanted visitor. 

They headed down a sloped gravel path, down towards the seaside village they had spotted on the water’s edge the day before. It seemed quaint, but they knew better than anyone the chaos the place had been through. What with Arundel temporarily heading the territory while Jeritza fought as a general in the Empire’s war. Lysithea had told them enough. Arundel was a terror. It was selfish and thoughtless, but Ferdinand was glad Hubert had stabbed that awful man in the gut.

Soon, the sun stretched its first rays, painting a pink line on the horizon. Ferdinand let out a sigh of relief. Finally, he could see the color and shape of his dear companions again. Once they got close enough they the village, they ducked into the bushes. Dorothea changed from her nightwear as Petra and Ferdinand stood guard. Then the other two took their turns. 

“When we get to Almyra, I’m going to take a bath and get myself a new pair of clothes,” Dorothea huffed as she tied her curly hair into a messy ponytail. “I don’t like just having two pairs with me.”

Petra shook her head lovingly, “You are not meant for the hunter’s life. I was spending days out in the wilderness, surviving with just a knife and a bow. You are supposed to be getting muddy and getting twigs in your hair. It makes you blend with nature.”

“Now  _ that’s _ a sight I’d like to see,” Dorothea bumped her hip into Petra’s. “Petra, in her most natural state.”

The princess pecked Dorothea on the cheek before hopping ahead on the path. Ferdinand rolled his eyes and smiled, bittersweet, at the sight. He hoped they’d all make it through whatever came their way.

“We are almost there,” he remarked, removing himself from his thoughts. “I hope there is a good traveler’s vessel waiting at port. I would hate to have you two sitting amongst barrels of fruits.”

“After that stable and that  _ unnerving _ mansion,” Dorothea tipped her head back towards Ferdinand, “I wouldn’t mind sitting amongst fruit.”

To at least Ferdinand’s relief, they wouldn’t have to hitch a ride on a merchant ship. The town was already awake. Heavy, saline smells of fresh fish ladened the air. Petra gained a pep in her step at the familiarity of it all. Vendors prepared their wares for a day at the market. A spotted chicken ducked, clucking wildly, between the stride of Ferdinand’s boots. He clumsily danced around the bird. Petra smiled and pointed out a grand ship in the docks. Rimmed in pinkish morning light, an olivine flag hung in the low breeze. Ferdinand could barely make it out, but the pattern was surely that of an Almyran national flag.

There was a heavy-set woman waiting near the bow of the ship, waving a few early birds up the gangplank. The passengers were exceptionally well dressed, and Dorothea found herself self-consciously brushing her trousers and wishing she had at  _ least _ brought a pair of earrings. She couldn’t fret for long. Petra grabbed her by the hand and bounded towards the woman eagerly.

“Are you going to be departing for Almyra?” Petra waved as she approached.

The woman quirked her eyebrows and smiled with amusement, taken by Petra’s accent. “Yea. By noon, we’ll be heading for the capital. What of it?”

It was clear she wasn’t Fodlani herself. Her dark skin and hair, and her olive eyes, were usual Almyran traits. Her clothes too, Ferdinand realized with a twinge of guilt, reminded him of Claude’s and of Judith, the general they had brought down in Deirdru. Who had killed her? It certainly hadn’t been him, but it pained him greatly that he couldn’t remember such a famed fighter’s fate.

And Ignatz. He had died that day too, protecting Judith. Hubert had killed poor Ignatz, hadn’t he? When the professor couldn’t bare it, Hubert had shouldered the burden. As he always did. Ferdinand swallowed that thought shakily and approached. He remained shyly behind Petra and Dorothea, realizing how little he knew about Almyran culture beyond what had been taken that day.

“We are there for important diplomatic business,” Petra explained smartly, “and we are needing passage as soon as possible.” 

“Ah, yes. Diplomatic business,” the woman mused, “Not to pry, but may I ask who you are?”

Petra took a short bow, her hand to her chest, “I am Petra Macneary. Princess of Brigid.”

“And I am Ferdinand,” Ferdinand chimed in sheepishly. “Ferdinand von Aegir. Prime Minister of Adrestia.” It felt wrong using his last name when it did not yet belong to him again.

The woman gave Dorothea a look, “You’re in interesting company. And you would be someone else equally famed, I presume?”

“Oh no, not really,” the sorceress said hotly, secrets barely held on the tip of her tongue, “Just a songstress. A friend of theirs.” Yes, not Petra’s future wife at all. She had to keep herself from smirking indignantly.

“Hm. A very important group then,” the woman folded her arms with a hum, “I’d be honored to have you aboard my ship. However, it feels cruel not to warn you off. I wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for endangering a princess and a prime minister.”

“Huh?” Ferdinand made a noise of surprise over Dorothea’s shoulder.

“You see,” the woman sighed, “there have been pirates in these waters as of late.”

\---

The sleek, black object was heavier than she expected. Pittacus ran her fingers down the grooves of the barrel, clicking her tongue in satisfaction as she studied the weapon. “Can’t believe Myson is actually letting us use these,” she mused, slipping the object diligently into her pack, reluctant to let it go so soon. 

“Don’t be too eager,” smiled her companion sourly. “Myson said only to use guns if need be. The damn things have less blasts than Excalibur, I swear.”

This woman was a mechanic too, and a scientist. Jealous as Pittacus could be of Bias’ renown, she looked up to her for her tremendous work on Agartha’s best Titanus models. The older scientist tied her silvery blond hair into a loose bun. Tucked under her armpit was a simple, black mage’s dress. It wouldn’t do to approach primitives in the tight, dark clothes of synthesized Agarthan design. They needed to blend in, at least for now. A crooked smile etched itself onto Pittacus’ face. They’d show them what they were truly made of soon enough.

“What did Patricia tell you?” Bias grunted as she struggled with the dress. 

“I think she wants us to bring Edelgard,” Pittacus said, slinging her sack over her shoulder. The unloaded gun clunked against her other tools. “If the request for the Relics doesn’t end well, and I’m guessing it won’t, we might be bringing back _ more _ .”

Bias fell still. She narrowed her eyes, “Bringing them back,  _ where _ ?”

The younger Agarthan shrugged and averted her gaze, “Back to here, I presume. Area 17.” 

“Did you tell Myson or Chilon about this?” Bias started picking up her things, suddenly in a hurry.

“No, but they’ll get over it,” Pittacus shot a grin in her direction. Bias sighed with frustration.

Chilon was waiting for them at the Gateway. The pulsing blue light of the underground system always looked funny against the golden armor he wore. Honestly, Pittacus swore she’d never seen him with it off. Maybe he was as ugly as Solon.

“Bias, Pittacus,” he nodded his helmet. “Good luck up there.”  
  
Pittacus merely grunted.

“Oh, and Bias,” the man continued, “Myson wants to know how close to completion the St. New Gens are.”

“One of them is almost done,” Pittacus waved him off, “don’t worry about it. Odesse is keeping a close eye on the Lamine Unit. I’d say I can get it out and functional when we get back.”

“Good,” nodded Chilon. The two women vanished through the gate without another word.

\---

The dungeons were dank with mold. Darkness and moisture permeated through Caspar’s skin as he quickly descended the spiraling stone staircase. He avoided the place like the plague, vaguely aware of the cells rotting deep beneath his feet every time he took a step into the castle at Enbarr. They reminded him of how simply fate could have twisted against him, against Linhardt and his friends, against the whole Empire, and how he could have been a prisoner of war himself. Perhaps, he could’ve been freezing away in the cold prisons of Faerghus, or worse, in the unused cells below the Bergliez territory if he had chosen to abandon his homeland. 

Guards moved aside for his barreling figure. Caspar found himself tripping on the uneven cobbled floor despite the torch light etching dark shadows in the cracks between each emboldened stone.

His voice finally caught up to him through the custard-thick air, “ _ Linhardt _ ! Linhardt, where are you?” 

“Yes?” Linhardt’s sleepy voice echoed dead ahead. Caspar nearly crashed into the lithe man as he materialized outside an open cell. “What is it?”

His green hair was tied fully into a bun, his sleeves rolled up, both signs he was buried deep in his work. Cold sweat glimmered like beads of ice down the sides of his pale face. He’d been cooping himself down here for days on end, and it made Caspar shiver.

“You’ve gotta get rid of that corpse!” Caspar released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, “It’s bad news! Lysithea got a curse from touching that thing. What if you-”

Linhardt lifted his arm nonchalantly and flashed his wrist towards Caspar. “Oh, you mean this? Awfully itchy, this mark.”

“Aw man, Linhardt,  _ no _ !” He grabbed up the scientist’s hand. It was painfully clammy. “No, no,  _ no _ . This is why you can’t mess around with dark magic! You have to stop this right now!”

Linhardt tore his hand away from Caspar’s grasp. He rubbed his wrist with a pout, “Is it the same thing Hubert ran from? I  _ really _ don’t see the problem with a tracking spell. It’s not like the enemy couldn’t guess where we are, if they knew where Thales was heading. In fact, I think hanging around in Enbarr is the most predictable thing we’ve done in a while.”

“Ugh, Linhardt, that’s besides the point!” Caspar grabbed his best friend by the shoulders and shook him. Maybe it was just a silly looking mark, but there was one thing the brawler knew about dark magic. It was made to kill, to torture, to mutilate far more than the fist of man was meant to. “It’s ancient dark magic! What if it’s worse than  _ just _ a tracking spell? It’s Those Who Slither, it’s got to be bad. It has to be!”

“Well,” Linhardt shrugged in Caspar’s grasp, averting his dark eyes, “although it hasn’t been bothering me much, some of the guards have been having rather...adverse reactions.”

“Wait,” Caspar’s mind was slowly churning again, “the guards?”

“Caspar! Caspar, slow down, please!” called a strained voice from down the hall. “My stamina…”

Caspar loosened his grip on Linhardt, who he’d hoisted up and pressed angrily against the frame of the open cell they were standing before. Lysithea soon came galloping up to them, gait flimsy, with Edelgard worrying behind her.

“Do be careful not to strain yourself so much, Lysithea.”

“I’m fine,” Lysithea reassured unconvincingly, ducking herself down to catch her heaving breath. “Linhardt. We need to burn Thales’ body. Now.”

“I suppose,” Linhardt agreed with lazy hesitance. Guiltily, he turned his face away from them, his cheek grazing the cool metal of the door frame. “But, if it’s the curse you’re looking to stop, it’s already spread.”

Lysithea growled through her clenched teeth when the reluctant scientist bared his wrist. Caspar at last relinquished him in favor of slumping against a wall. 

“It’s not just me,” Linhardt sighed. “All the guards who spent time protecting this cell have the mark too. They showed me just this morning, when I noticed I had it as well.”

“Linhardt! Why didn’t you come and tell me immediately?” Edelgard’s composure was slipping away into the cold dark of the dungeon. She hated the place. “It is your duty to be responsive! To be at least a _ little  _ bit self-aware!”

“I can make no excuses for myself,” he grimaced. His fingers shook as he brushed the perspiration from his forehead. “I wanted to study the symptoms before I let the soldiers walk off. What if it can spread from person to person, not just direct contact with the corpse? Is it through touch or airborne? It’s a truly fascinating spell, whatever it is.”

The Emperor hid her face with her red gloves to hide her nervous sneer. She took a deep breath, “Linhardt, where are these guards you spoke of?”

Linhardt cocked his head towards the end of the dark hall, “Down there, near a supply room. I told them to rest for a while. It’s a bit ridiculous having them guard a corpse that is most certainly and completely dead, don’t you think?”

Considering the corpse in question was a magical, shapeshifting one, Edelgard and Lysithea thought it was perfectly reasonable. The Emperor merely grunted and stalked off further into the corridor alone.

“Come on then, Lysithea. Let’s burn the corpse,” frowned Linhardt, brow shaped by pain. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a sharp breath. 

“Are you alright?” Lysithea reached out, “If you’re feeling weak, I can do it myself.”

“No, no. It’ll take a lot of fire power. I should help you,” Linhardt persevered, using the bars of the cell to hold himself upright. 

The sorceress nodded in admission, and still the worry never left her face. “If you need to stop, I’ll finish the job. On my honor.”

They entered the cell together and Caspar buried his face tiredly against his knees.

Heels clicking and casting echoes against the walls, Edelgard strode towards the guards with a face of stone. Some of the armored guards had seen better days. They sat and ate in silence. One woman was curled up against the wall, another rubbing her shoulder. Someone else rested flat on his back, seemingly coming down with a fever as he shivered beneath a cloak.

They observed the red emperor pitifully, embarrassment in their eyes. Edelgard frowned at the state of them. 

“Go to the infirmary, all of you. Seek out Manuela,” she commanded sternly. She did not move until they had scuttled past her, helping each other up and bowing in a thankful hurry to the monument frozen before them.

The Emperor could smell the stench of burning flesh as she returned to Caspar’s side. Caspar protected his face from the flames, curled up in a miserable ball, and Edelgard wondered if it reminded him of their hard fought victory in Fhirdiad. It certainly brought back such memories for her. The burns on her skin were still young, still fresh, and she knew they would never heal. The smell of fire in the moldy dungeon didn’t smell as good as it had then. That battle was a victory for the Empire and Those Who Slither both, and the more she thought about it the more it haunted her. The smoke that crowded the hall now, making Caspar cower, was a victory for no one.

She stood as a pillar besides the stout man. He leaned wordlessly against her leg as Linhardt cast a Wind spell to push the wretched smoke away. Edelgard closed her eyes to stop the soot from drawing out her tears. The alternating Fire and Wind magic went on until Linhardt began with his dry retching, and Caspar peaked up from his knees at the terrible sound. It had been a while since the dead had made Linhardt physically sick.

“Take it easy,” Lysithea reached her smoldering hands across the charred corpse. “If you need to step out, you can. I’ll take care of it. Seriously, my sick contempt for Thales makes it no big deal at all for me.”

“Alright,” Linhardt gagged.

But then, he was brought to the ground with one wobbly step. He took in a breath, sharp and ragged, before he started to wretch again against the dirt floor. Edelgard rushed to him.

“Hey!” Caspar shouted, the remaining smoke making him dizzy as he knelt beside Linhardt, holding out his hand, “Come on, buddy, we gotta get you out of here.”

“Caspar,” he flexed his fingers in Caspar’s grasp, “My body. I can’t move.”

Edelgard held him steady as he gagged out whatever water he had in his stomach. Linhardt sagged in the Emperor’s grasp. The water dribbled down his jawline. If he had been anyone else in the Edelgard’s arms, he would’ve been embarrassed. But, this was Linhardt.

“Some symptoms these are,” Linhardt shivered. Caspar wiped the water from the corner Linhardt’s mouth and cupped his face in his hardy hands. He continued to tremble. “Airborne.”

“Lysithea, no more burning the corpse,” Edelgard decided loudly. “Go get medical assistance immediately.”

As she watched the spectacle, Lysithea subconsciously dug her nails into her arm. Vengeance was flaring up for her as well, shooting fire up her limb and into her shoulder. She swallowed the ache down and bolted as best she could.

She didn’t get far. When she reached the bottom of the swirling stairwell, ready the heave herself all the way up if she had to, there were two unfamiliar people waiting for her. They looked like mages, but the glowing device in the hands of the taller figure set her veins on fire again. This time, for an altogether different reason. Lysithea stared them down with fury in her pinkish glare.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where Her Majesty is, would you?” the shorter one sneered, “No one in this castle seems to know where their own damn Emperor is.”

“Like hell I’d tell you,” Lysithea spat, bringing Luna fiercely to her fingertips.

Unflinchingly, the eldest mage reached out and grabbed her glowing hand with gloved fingers. Lysithea’s eyes rounded in shock as the magic died in her palm.

“Now, now. That won’t do,” the woman chided her as she lashed about in her grip. No magic would spark no matter the formulas she had memorized, nor the sheets of magic circles she had stuffed into her dress. Magic was all Lysithea had, and so she panicked as it escaped her. She kicked at the woman’s legs helplessly with her black dress shoes.

“Hey, lookie there. Someone has a Vengeance mark,” pointed out the younger one. She reached for something on her belt, “May I?”

“Don’t be absurd, Pittacus,” scoffed the disguised woman as Lysithea’s rithing continued. “It’s not even a true mark. Be patient.”

The woman proceeded to march down the hall, dragging Lysithea with her. She began to shout, careful to leave Edelgard out of it, “Caspar! Linhardt! We’re in danger-  _ oh let GO of me for pity’s sake _ \- HELP.”

Caspar peeped his head out and immediately got to shouting and scolding the strangers, “Hey, let go of the lady, you cretinous mages!”

To Lysithea’s chagrin, Edelgard came to her aid as well. The small but domineering emperor stepped from the cell with poise and righteous fury, despite the string bean of a man awkwardly limp against her side.

“Let her go,” Edelgard commanded cooly, “and state your business, unless you want your heads to leave your shoulders.”

The woman did not let Lysithea go before stating her purpose loudly and clearly, “We’re here for the two Relics.” 

Lysithea went slack in the intruder’s grip. The composure on Edelgard’s face was wiped away as she let Caspar take Linhardt into his arms.

“But the month is not yet up!” the Emperor observed, perplexed.

“And?” Pittacus folded her arms impatiently. “Why should we care?”

“What my companion means to say,” the twisted woman beguiled, “is that you’ve already failed on your end of the bargain. We’re just coming early to make up for certain  _ lost _ assets.”

Pittacus’ mouth curled up into a toothy snarl. “Which one of you killed Thales?

“The one who did it fled, knowing you were coming,” Edelgard shook her head wearily, “and I am here to pick up his pieces.”

“Then pick up his pieces by telling us where Amyr and the Creator are,” Pittacus insisted.

Edelgard took one step closer to them. One step closer to Lysithea, who was on her knees and shaking. “I will, but you know the Relics were broken in our final battle against the Immaculate One, do you not? They are useless as weapons.”

“Eh, we can fix them,” the woman shrugged, “and besides, it’s just the material we want.”

Nodding reluctantly, Edelgard took another stride forward, locking sorrowful eyes with Lysithea’s. “Then Amyr is yours. But, the Creator is another matter entirely. The wielder would not dream of parting with it.”

“Huh? You mean the Fell Star?” Pittacus chirped, “Always causing problems, that one. Guess we’ll have to go through her too, then.”

“You will do no such thing,” Edelgard’s face contorted as she threatened to reach out and harm the smart talking Pittacus. “The Professor is undefeated. Unchallenged.”

“Without the power of the Creator?” Pittacus lifted something from her belt and slowly pointed it at the Emperor. It most certainly wasn’t a dagger. It had no point and didn’t glint. Rather, it was dark as coal. “I don’t think so.”

“ _ Pittacus _ .”

“Relax, Bias. I’m not gonna use it on her,” the younger stranger smirked, “but can I please threaten them a bit?”

Bias sighed gratingly and pulled Lysithea up by her arm. Her fingers were starting to leave dark imprints on the pale woman’s skin. “Fine, do it to this one. Just don’t kill her, got it? Or you’re next.”

“Got it!” Pittacus enthused, pointing the...  _ thing _ at Lysithea, who flinched under the stare of the object’s open, black eye. 

“ _ I said I’ll give you Amyr _ !” the Emperor insisted with fright as Lysithea pleaded silently to her. “I’ll try to convince Byleth to let go of the Creator. _ I swear it _ ! Just please, whatever you’re about to do-”

The thing in Pittacus’ hand clicked, and within the twitch of a finger, the air exploded with sound and energy. It was louder than any roar of thunder. Caspar shouted, Linhardt trembling harder and gripping to his shirt. The Emperor flinched and fell to her knees as if she had been hit. And Lysithea screamed almost as loud as the day she received her second crest.

When the echoing in the corridor had faded away, all that was left was Lysithea’s wailing. She clutched her leg and cried as blood ran unhindered through her grasping fingers and onto the floor. Edelgard’s mouth was agape, her shock bleeding into fear and then wrath. She swung out at Pittacus and her weapon, despite Caspar’s plea blaring in the background. Taking the obsidian object in her hands, she twisted Pittacus’ wrist to turn the things violent eye skywards. She was prepared to crack Pittacus’ hand out of its socket if need be. The flare of her nostrils made that clear enough to the Agarthan.

Bias brought a dark blade to the Emperor’s neck, clicking her tongue tiredly as she did so. “Calm down, both of you. I think we all understand where this situation stands now.”

Edelgard let go of Pittacus, eyes never leaving the violent object. It reminded her of the turrets strewn across the battlegrounds of Fodlan, only smaller, more precise. “Then you should know never to hurt Lysithea again, or I’ll make fast work of the lot of you.”

“Oh, so  _ you’re _ Lysithea,” amusement suddenly lit up Bias’ eery face. “No wonder you and Her Majesty look so similar.”

Lysithea glared murderously at Bias through the tears streaming down her face, “You... _ you _ …”

“What a waste... Actually,” Bias declared, “I have a wonderful plan. Let’s take Edelgard  _ and _ Lysithea back with us.”

“Excuse me?” Edelgard breathed. Pittacus merely laughed at her surprise and lifted to object to Emperor’s forehead.

“You heard me. Once Amyr and the Creator are rightfully ours, you will join us on the trip home,” Bias smiled, her face growing shades whiter as the moments ticked by. “Your mother is waiting there for you, Edelgard.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wait is over! College really took the life out of me, but break is here. I really hope I can put a big dent in this story while I'm home. Promise there will be lots of Hubert in the next chapter! There will also be Claurenz and Shadows of Valentia tributes galore :D
> 
> @Jelly_Flavored on twitter


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